


Turning Points

by GreenBean



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Comic Book Science, F/M, Missions, People being competent, Redemption, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, This is going to be long, Whump, fighting hydra
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-04-22 18:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 156,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22200844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenBean/pseuds/GreenBean
Summary: The crash of the Insight Helicarriers and the publication of both S.H.I.E.L.D.'s and Hydra's secrets on the internet was a turning point for many people.Brock Rumlow has worked hard and almost died for something that he thought was worth the ultimate sacrifice. But thanks to Rogers and Romanoff, all of it went up in smoke in less than a week. If that wasn't enough, they killed all of his friends and every halfway competent Hydra leader. Now he's alone and on the run from just about every security agency in the world.Phil Coulson seized the moment and went public, putting S.H.I.E.L.D. under UN oversight and reconciling with the Avengers. The Agency has recovered and has almost managed to put Hydra down for good. Jemma Simmons and her friends should be happy, but they are still haunted by the betrayal of their former team mate.So when S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to tick off Brock's name from their most wanted list, finding out that he's Jemma's soulmate might just be the turning point that nobody had on their radar...Soulmate AU, set after CA:TWS and AoS Season 1. Uses some characters but no plot from AoS Season 2.
Relationships: Brock Rumlow/Jemma Simmons
Comments: 22
Kudos: 78





	1. Another day at the office

The security was good, but not good enough for the likes of him. Brock easily hacked into their system and got access to the camera streams. Then he wrote a script enabling him to loop the feeds in the two relevant rooms from his phone. He had observed the security guards during the past four days and realized that while they tried to randomize their patrols, they always had a coffee after the end of their round, which gave him a time window of at least ten minutes. Now Brock was waiting on the roof of the museum, dressed in dark but casual clothes that would allow him to blend into the crowd should he need to make a quick getaway. This was Singapore, after all, and Caucasians weren’t so rare that he would attract immediate attention. Also, _he_ wasn’t 6"7 and blonde like some people he used to work with. Once on the roof, Brock had put on a balaclava and tight gloves, as well as a harness that he had carried in a duffel bag. He was staring at his phone, which was streeming the feeds of four cameras that Brock had placed on surrounding buildings. At the moment, two of the guards were touring the building, but they were almost done. Brock clipped his harness into a hook that he had planted the previous night and crouched on the edge of the roof. Finally, the men reached their office and Brock started the script that would loop the security cameras. Then he took the batteries out of his phone, which he put into his breast pocket before jumping over the edge. Silently, Brock rappeled two stories down and stopped next to a window. He took a small device out of his pocket and pressed a button. There was no noise, but the blinking red light of the motion sensor in the corner of the window suddenly winked out. The EMP had worked. Brock took two suction cups from his bag and attached them to the window, then cut a large circular opening into the glass. Carefully, he cut the circle in half, grabbing each piece by the suction cup and taking them with him as he slipped through the opening into the room. There, he placed the glass gently on the floor, released the suction cups and let them disappear into his bag – thieves, like magicians, didn’t like to reveal their tricks. Then Brock unhooked his harness and strode quickly to the door on his right.

There were five display cases in the windowless room, almost all of them filled with gleaming weapons. Japanese, from a variety of eras, as Brock’s research had taught him. Only one cabinet, in the back corner of the room, held civilian objects. His target was amongst them, a beautiful 19th century lacquer _inro_, the Japanese men’s version of a purse. It was a stack of wooden boxes that had been worn by hanging it from the sash with a string. A second EMP took care of the display case’s alarm system, a bolt cutter opened the lock on the front of the cabinet, and finally the glass dome could be swung back on two hinges. Brock allowed himself a small smile as he wrapped a soft cloth around the _inro_ and slipped it into his bag.

There was no point in trying to hide the signs of his break-in, the hole in the window would be noticed as soon as the guards went on their next round. So Brock quickly but silently returned to the neighbouring room, clipped his harness to the rope and wriggled out of the window. Rapidly, he climbed back up to the roof, where he stuck the rope and harness into his bag and reassembled his phone. A short glance at the display showed him that the guards were still sitting in their office. Brock grinned, took a running leap to the neighbouring building and climbed down the fire escape. _Another day at the office._

An hour later, Brock reached his safe house. He took the _inro_ out of his bag, unwrapped it and took a photo with his phone.

**Object acquired.**

Message and picture were sent via the private messaging service of a forum on the dark net that specialized in these things, as agreed upon with his client. The first half of the payment, half a million dollars, had arrived on Brock’s Swiss bank account yesterday, and he would deliver the object as soon as the second half was paid. Brock left the phone on the table and went over to the tap, where he filled a glass with water. His head was hurting a little. _I spent too much time staring at tiny videos on that stupid phone_, Brock thought to himself as he rubbed his temples. _I know why I used to leave this part to Miller._ He felt a familiar pang of regret. Brock wasn’t made for solo work, he missed his team. Unfortunately, as far as he knew all of them were dead. Even if they weren’t, they’d still be loyal to Hydra. Brock hadn’t just burnt those bridges, he’d nuked them out of existence. Not because he’d suddenly agreed with Rogers or anything stupidly heroic like that, no, he’d simply come to the conclusion that all that was left of Hydra after the Insight debacle was a bunch of psychopaths, sadists and idiots. Being experimented upon could do that to a guy. It was a shame, really, because they’d almost reached their final goal. Almost managed to do what he’d been prepared to sacrifice everything for. If only he’d kept a closer eye on Romanoff on the Lemurian Star. If he’d stopped the elevator sooner, too high for Rogers to jump down into the atrium. If he hadn’t let himself be fooled by Romanoff’s tricks in the shopping mall. If he’d allowed Jack to simply shoot Rogers in the street. If he hadn’t given in to his impulse to make Rogers’ buddy pay for ruining everything.

Brock sighed. It was no use crying over all those what-ifs. What was done was done, his chance to turn the world into a better place was irretrievably lost. Maybe it was time to recruit some new people, start his own criminal empire.

_Yeah, right._ That wouldn’t just exponentially increase the chance of the damn Avengers coming after him, it also... didn’t feel right, much as he hated to admit it. _It’s not what I set out to do when I joined Hydra all those years ago._ Sometimes, life didn’t care about your well-laid plans. Solo ops it was, then. Until he slipped up one day and– _Nope, not going there, Brock. Think positive. You’ve made it for two years, you’ll make it some more. And the world will forget about you sooner or later. Ah well, the payment is good enough that I can allow myself a few months of holidays after this job._

His phone chimed. Frowning, Brock grabbed the device and unlocked the screen. His client had sent a message. _God, I hope they didn’t get cold feet. It’s such a bother to find buyers for stuff you’ve already stolen._

No, his client hadn’t gotten cold feet. Brock, however, felt a cold shiver run down his spine as he read the message.

**Hello, Mr. Rumlow. This is Phil Coulson. I see that you have gotten our little present.**

* ∼ *

This time, Jemma would have nothing to do until the end of the mission. Well, to be exact, there had been quite a bit at the beginning, too. She had been working on the experimental drug on and off for the last three years, whenever she had time or was inspired by whatever other things she came across during her work, but it had only been perfected a month ago. Coulson had smiled at her when she had given him the report, and said that he had the perfect use for it.

Brock Rumlow was one of the few high-ranking Hydra officers that had managed to avoid both the Avengers (Jemma had heard that Captain Rogers had been very disappointed by his former close colleague’s betrayal) and Coulson’s new S.H.I.E.L.D. for more than two years now. He was number four on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s internal most-wanted list. In fact, he was the highest-ranking Hydra agent who also used to be S.H.I.E.L.D., and as such held a special significance for the agency. They’d spent quite a few resources on finding him. There had been a few close calls, but the man was just too good and knew all the tricks in the book, and quite a few that no agency would ever put _in_ the book. He couldn’t know about Jemma’s new work, though.

“That’s just come from Rumlow", Coulson explained with a nod to a large photograph on the holotable as the group assembled in the control room. The image showed a small, delicately painted, cylindrical stack of boxes lying on a black cloth, which had been placed on what looked like a kitchen table. “The museum has called the police because of a break-in twelve minutes ago, so we have to assume the picture’s genuine."

Skye smirked. “Have you written him yet?"

In lieu of an answer, Coulson grabbed his tablet and started typing. On the large wall display, text started appearing.

**Hello, Mr. Rumlow. This is Phil Coulson. I see that you have gotten our little present. The air in the display cabinet was contaminated with a poison that we have recently developed. You will soon start to experience pain that will get continually stronger, until you are administered the antidote. We are the only ones who know what that antidote is. Surrender, and we will give it to you.**

Even though she was the one who had developed the substance, Jemma had to swallow as she read its effects described so drastically. She could only imagine too well what it must feel like to get a message like this. After all, when she had been infected by the Chitauri virus, she had been desperate for an antidote as well.

The team looked expectantly at the display. For a long minute, nothing happened. Then, there were two single words.

**Fuck you.**

“I guess that means he won’t surrender. At least not yet", Coulson said dryly. “Skye, what have you got?"

“He managed to avoid most of the traffic and CCTV cameras, but because we were monitoring all of them in the whole city, we know that he has to be somewhere in this quarter." A map appeared on the wall, one part of the city overlaid in red. “There are some residential buildings, quite a few warehouses and also a lot of offices. I’ve started to run all of the company names through the databases to see if there’s something that might be a shell company."

“Excellent. Everybody, gear up, I’m sure we will have him soon."

* ∼ *

Three days later, Brock could barely think straight. His head felt as if there were knifes stuck in it, his bones were liquid fire and his muscles only obeyed sporadically. He had left his safe house immediately after receiving Coulson’s message and visited a clinic run by a known mobster. By the time he’d arrived at the dingy place, his headache had intensified and started spreading to his arms. The blood and urine tests hadn’t shown anything obvious, and the doctor hadn’t been able to identify what was ailing him. So Brock had asked the doctor to take a few more blood samples, which he took with him and later sent via courier to a lab in Bangkok whose head still owed him a favor. Until now, the lab hadn’t found anything, either. It didn’t look good.

But Brock was a fighter. Coulson hadn’t said that the poison would kill him, only that he would be in pain. He knew all about that, didn’t he? _Order only comes through pain._ Brock still regretted saying that to Rogers’ little friend, in retrospect, it felt too much like tempting fate. But he’d been out of bullets and frustrated with Rogers trying to ruin everything he’d been working toward for so many years that he hadn’t quite been thinking straight. Having the Triskelion collapse on top of him had hurt like hell, only Hydra’s experimental medicine had prevented him from scarring horribly. The success of this treatment hadn’t been enough to make Brock overlook the fact that the ‘doctors’ had tested some other, less benign substances on him, though.

Right now, Brock hoped that Coulson had lied to him, and that the poison would eventually lose its effect. If the man had told the truth, things would really get ugly. _I’ve never heard about a poison like that. Is it possible that S.H.I.E.L.D. has such a powerful weapon? If yes, then it must be fairly new, or Hydra would have known about it._ He took a shaking breath. _Most of the more unconventional scientists were Hydra. But Coulson has FitzSimmons. I know that they’ve invented some crazy shit, so why not a poison?_

Brock was grudgingly impressed. He hadn’t thought that S.H.I.E.L.D. still had it in them to torture someone, not after Coulson’s public promise to respect human rights. And torture was the only word to describe what was happening to him now. On the second day, Brock’s state had deteriorated so badly that he couldn’t keep down food anymore. Twelve hours later, even water made him throw up. Now he was hiding in an abandoned warehouse, out of the sightlines of the windows, with his back to the wall and a gun in his hand. The world was spinning slowly. The painkillers he had taken didn’t have the slightest effect, if anything, they made him even more nauseous. _Fuck my life._ Brock blinked. He should really try to get some sleep, but he’d quickly found out that lying down only made the pain worse. Well, there was nothing to do but wait – either for a call from Bangkok, or for the poison to stop working on its on. Brock refused to think about other possibilities. He blinked again.

Suddenly, there was a crash and the door flew into the building. Brock was moving before he registered what he was doing. He dove behind a stack of broken crates, aimed his gun at the person in the door and fired. His hand was shaking so badly that the shot went wide, but at least it made the person duck and gave him the few seconds he needed to reach the back door. As he stumbled out, he came face to face with a woman dressed in black. Melinda May, the Cavalry. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ Amazingly, she didn’t seem to have a weapon on her. He didn’t have time to think about what that meant. Instead, he raised his gun and – where had she gone? There was a blur of movement, he reacted on instinct, but his body didn’t obey him as it usually did. A kick hit his wrist and the gun went flying. Brock hissed as the sharp pain was added to his already almost overloaded body. He knew that if he wanted to get away, he had to at least knock May out, or she would follow and easily catch him. Without his weapon, that meant hand-to-hand. As he engaged the petite woman in a messy fight, Brock quickly realized that he didn’t stand a chance, not in his current state. But he was too proud to just give up.

A few kicks and punches were exchanged, then May twisted Brock’s arm behind his back and ordered sharply: “Give up, Rumlow."

“Never", he grunted and turned in her hold. The move that had already worked so many times in his career was easily blocked by the smaller woman. She hooked a foot around Brock’s knee and managed to make him fall, then immediately pressed her knee into his back.

“Surrender!"

Brock kept struggling, even though his sight was slowly going dark. May huffed. “As you wish." There was a twisting motion, then a pop as his shoulder snapped out of the joint. Brock screamed, then abruptly went silent as his body finally surrendered to the debilitating pain.

* ∼ *

Jemma was getting antsy. This was the first time the team was on a mission together since their hunt for Garrett and Ward two years ago. She secretly suspected that Coulson had been going stir-crazy from being confined to offices and meeting rooms for that long, and had therefore used the importance of catching Rumlow as a convenient excuse to go back into the field. Not that Jemma was complaining – if she was honest with herself, building up a lab and doing high-level science was fun, but she did miss life on the Bus. However, they’d all thought that, after weeks of planning, the actual being-in-the-field part would be much shorter. Rumlow should have given up after a day, two at most, and even if he was more stubborn than anticipated, Skye’s hacking skills should have provided his location by now. Jemma had told Coulson her poison was safe for two days, after that, she strongly recommended to administer the antidote. It was the third day now. Jemma had never killed anyone before, and she didn’t want to start now, no matter how much a man like Rumlow might deserve it.

Finally, Coulson called the Bus and told them that they had Rumlow in their custody, alive. Jemma heaved a huge sigh of relief. She was waiting for May and Coulson in the cargo bay as they returned to the Bus. May drove the pick-up up the ramp, then opened the trunk as Coulson waved Jemma closer.

“Did everything go as planned?", Jemma asked distractedly as she helped May pull the stretcher onto a gurney. Rumlow looked almost as he had on the photos in the mission briefing, just a bit paler. He was tied to the stretcher by four tight straps and two pairs of handcuffs.

“He put up quite the fight, considering his condition", Coulson said dryly.

“He was awake?", Jemma asked, aghast. “After three days? But that’s impossible!"

“That’s what we thought", May said sarcastically. “I had to dislocate his shoulder to knock him out. Don’t worry, we already popped it back in", she added at Jemma’s disbelieving look.

The biochemist shook her head and murmured to Rumlow: “That sounds like you’re going to be a piece of work, huh?"

Of course, Rumlow didn’t answer. With Fitz’s help, Jemma pushed the gurney towards the med pod, then heaved the unconscious man onto the bed. They were watched closely by Coulson the whole time, until they fastened the restraints that attached Rumlow’s wrists and ankles to the bed.

“You got it from here?", the Director asked seriously.

“Of course, Sir. Everything is prepared."

“Good. I will be in my office if you need me."

Jemma nodded absently, her mind already on the task at hand. “Fitz, could you fetch the IV bag from the cabinet, please?" She put a bottle of disinfectant, some tissues and a syringe onto the small table next to the bed, then pushed up the right sleeve of Rumlow’s tight black jumper. Her eyes fell onto the crook of his arm, and she froze. _No. That’s not possible._

“Hey, Jemma, do you want me to– Jemma? What’s wrong?"

Wordlessly, her face frozen in a mask of horror, Jemma pointed to Rumlow’s arm. There, just below the elbow, were the words: That sounds like you’re going to be a piece of work, huh? They both would have recognized the handwriting everywhere.

“What the hell?" Fitz was staring at her openmouthed. “But... that means he’s... How?"

Jemma shook her head. “I don’t know!" She realized that her voice was higher than usual, panic was starting to set in. “He’s Hydra, he’s a ruthless murderer and–" Jemma forced herself to take a deep breath.

Fitz put a comforting hand on her arm. “Maybe it’s a fluke? Maybe he got a sample of your handwriting from the S.H.I.E.L.D. databases and wrote it himself."

“Don’t be absurd. He’s been unconscious since he got here", Jemma replied absentmindedly. She appreciated what her friend was trying to do, she did, but unfortunately, it would not help her. In science, you couldn’t make the facts match your theory, you had to fit your theory to the facts. And the fact was that Bruck Rumlow bore her soulmate mark. Jemma took another deep breath. _Okay, don’t panic. You can do this. It’s not the end of the world. It’s just– an evil soulmate._ A hysterical giggle threatened to leave her lips, and she hastily pressed her hand to her mouth. _I need more data, and more time. How do I get more time? By preventing that he dies. Then we can put him in a cell, and I can fix this. Somehow. Okay. First things first._

“Regardless of his possible relation to me, he has to be given the antidote. Quickly. But the Director has to be notified of this unexpected... development. Fitz, could you go and tell him, please?" When he looked ready to protest, she added: “Rumlow’s not gonna wake up for a few hours yet, and he’s restrained. Please, Fitz. I think it will be easier for me if – if I don’t have to tell Coulson myself."

Fitz’s eyes softened. “Sure. But take care."

When the engineer was gone, Jemma forced herself to stay calm. Grab one of the medical wipes, infuse it with disinfectant, swipe over Rumlow’s skin. Insert a catheter into his vein, stick it down with medical tape. Hang the IV bag from a hook on the cabin wall, plug the tube into the catheter. Wrap the arm with gauze. Put away the equipment. And if she had wrapped the arm with more gauze than strictly necessary, effectively hiding the soulmark from view – well, there was no one to see, was there?

“There, all done", Jemma murmured when everything had been cleaned away. Then, and only then did she allow herself to really look at the man in front of her. He was handsome, in a ragged kind of way, she had to grant him that. What she could see of his body in the tight jumper and dark blue jeans spoke of hard physical training. Before his career with STRIKE, he had been a specialist in S.H.I.E.L.D., just like May. And Ward. Thinking of Ward always hurt, so Jemma quickly stopped that train of thoughts. She should be professional and focus on Rumlow’s health, instead. She could see that his skin must usually be quite tanned, but right now it was unhealthily pale and covered by a thin sheen of sweat. Even unconscious, his face was scrunched up in pain, and his breathing was quite labored. Now that she thought about it, it might be a good idea to attach some more monitoring equipment to him, after all, no human had ever gone this long without the antidote. Jemma absolutely did not enjoy pushing up the jumper and the underlying black t-shirt to attach the heart monitor to his (nicely muscled) chest. The beeping was worryingly fast. Maybe she should also check his blood oxygen levels?

There were quick footsteps in the corridor behind her. “Agent Simmons? Are you all right?"

“Director", Jemma forced a bright smile onto her face. “Of course I’m all right. Why ever would I not be?"

Coulson’s pitying face told her clearly that her attempts at acting didn’t fool anyone. “Because you just found out that your soulmate is one of the men who betrayed everything you’ve ever worked for?"

“If you put it that way..." Jemma’s smile wobbled. She threw a quick glance in Rumlow’s direction, then let her gaze move into the corridor beyond, where Fitz and Skye had caught up with their boss. Seeing Jemma’s distress, Skye threw herself at her and hugged her tightly.

“Don’t worry, Jemma. We’ll help you no matter what."

The lump in her throat prevented Jemma from answering, so she only hugged Skye back in response.

Coulson calmly stated: “This doesn’t have to change anything if you don’t want it to. As soon as we arrive at the Playground, we can make sure that you never have to see him again. He doesn’t even have to know that it’s you those words belong to. I know enough field medicine to check on the IV and the monitors while we’re in the air."

“Thank you, Sir. I– I think I would appreciate some time to decide how I’m going to proceed."

“All right then. Off you go. Agent Fitz, Skye, please take care of Agent Simmons. May tells me it will be another six hours until landing."

* ∼ *

It took awhile until Brock realized that he was awake. His body still felt on fire, the blood was pounding in his ears and it was completely dark. After some time, a beeping registered. He sloggishly asked himself what that meant. _God, if only breathing wouldn’t hurt so much._ A few more minutes passed until Brock understood that it was so dark because his eyes were closed. With effort, he managed to open them – and immediately closed them again, groaning weakly, blinded by bright overhead lights. He wanted to shade his eyes with his hand, only to realize that it was restrained at the wrist.

“Whathefuck?" It was more of a croak then a question, really.

“Ah, Mister Rumlow. Good to see you’ve joined us again."

Brock knew that voice. He knew it, he knew it, he knew it... But from where? If only he knew what was going on. If only his body would stop hurting long enough for him to _think_. He slowly moved his head a tiny fraction to the side and opened his eyes a little. There was an average-looking white man in a suit standing over him._Coulson_, Brock’s brain supplied helpfully. With that realization came the memory of stealing the _inro_, getting the message, searching for an antidote and finally being attacked in the warehouse.

With as much venom as he could muster, Brock spat: “Bastard."

“Excuse me?" The man had the audacity to sound mildly amused.

“Was it – cause I – didn’t – surrender?", Brock got out between shallow breaths.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow."

“Antidote..."

Coulson’s face turned serious at that. “We already gave it to you."

“Liar", Brock pressed out.

“No, really. It was in the IV", Coulson said, pointing to a thick bandage around Brock’s right elbow and the tube that ran from there to an almost empty IV bag.

Brock blinked, trying to determine if the man was telling him the truth. He couldn’t be sure, Coulson’d always had a good poker face and he was too exhausted right now. So instead he settled for: “’S not – working."

“It hasn’t gotten better at all?"

Brock shook his head. It was only a small movement, but enough to make pain explode behind his eyes and knock him out.

* ∼ *

Jemma, Fitz and Syke looked up from their card game when Coulson approached them.

“DC! Did something happen?", Skye asked when she saw Coulson’s serious expression.

He nodded. “I’m afraid so. Rumlow just woke up. It seems that the antidote didn’t work."

“What?", Jemma asked aghast. “What do you mean, it didn’t work?"

“His heartrate is still much too high and he seemed to be in a lot of pain before he passed out again."

“Oh, bother", Jemma cursed. The implications of Coulson’s words were running through her head. They had tested the poison first on mice, then on pigs and finally on human volunteers (namely herself and Fitz). The long-term tests had shown that mice passed out after five hours and pigs after a day, but both were fine if given the antidote within five days. After that, their heartrate increased until they suffered from heart failure. Obviously, the substance had never been tested on a human over this timescale, but the reaction should have been the same. If the antidote didn’t work on Rumlow, and his heartrate was already elevated... Then it was quite possible that Jemma would be responsible for the death of her own soulmate.

There was only one reliable way to prevent this from happening.

It would change Jemma’s life forever.

Her brain short-circuited for a second or two. Her possible future unfolded in front of her inner eye, a bright career in the new version of S.H.I.E.L.D., an opportunity to make the world a better place, with good friends at her side and maybe, one day, a husband (a fellow scientist?) and a family... Or being tied to Rumlow until her death, which might come very soon if he decided to kill himself to take out one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best scientists. It shouldn’t have been a hard choice.

_But he’s my soulmate. I can’t just let him die._

Jemma lifted her chin and looked Coulson in the eye. “I will do it."

“Do what?", Fitz asked from beside her. Then, as it clicked, the words rushed out of him: “What, no, Jemma, you can’t... But that would mean..."

“It would mean completing the bond, yes."

“But then you will be bound to a murderer forever!" Fitz was clearly horrified. Coulson and Skye were watching silently, letting the two friends talk it out.

Jemma made an unhappy face. “I know, Fitz. But I can’t just let him die."

“Maybe the antidote’s too old, it could have lost its potency. We could just make a new batch."

“It’s only four days old, and I tested it on a mouse. That’s not the problem."

“Then we could draw some blood, check under the microscope how his cells react to the antidote. Mabye we have to adjust some of the concentrations–"

“There’s not enough time. Fitz, don’t you think I would have suggested something like this if I thought it would work?"

The engineer deflated. “I’m just worried about you, Jemma. If you do this, there’s no going back."

“I know." Jemma hugged herself. “And believe me, I wish I could avoid it. But I invented this poison, it would be my fault if he died. And I don’t think I could live with that."

Fitz nodded mutely. Then he carefully placed a hand on her shoulder. “I understand. I’ll help you. We will all help you, right?"

Skye nodded emphatically. Coulson gave a brief nod and added: “It eliminates some options, but it also keeps a lot of them open. We can still keep him imprisoned and do a hormone exchange without ever requiring you to be in the same room. It doesn’t mean that you have to live with him."

With forced cheerfulness, Jemma said: “All right then. Let’s go, shall we?"

Together, the group made its way towards the med pod. They could hear the shrill alarm of the heart monitor from the corridor. May was standing in front of the door, watching their prisoner intently. “He doesn’t look good." One glance at Jemma’s nervous face, and May stepped back to let the younger woman pass. Once inside, Jemma stopped dead in her tracks. Rumlow looked bad, really bad. His body was shaking, his face a rictus of pain, and sweat was plastering his hair to his head. He was clearly unconscious. Licking her lips nervously, Jemma stepped closer to the bed. Coulson pushed the small visitor chair towards her and nodded encouragingly.

“Okay. Here goes nothing...", Jemma murmured, and unwrapped the thick bandage from Rumlow’s elbow. Her own neat handwriting greeted her. Carefully, as if she was expecting something to explode, Jemma placed two fingers on the writing. Her skin tingled where it touched the soulmark. She knew theoretically what she had to do, but for obvious reasons this was the first time she was actually trying it. Jemma concentrated on the tingly feeling. At first, it seemed like nothing happened, but then there was a burst of warmth where their skin met and Jemma suddenly felt lightheaded.

“So pretty..."

The words were uttered by a gravelly voice, a voice whose owner was staring up at her from hooded eyes. He was only half awake, the sudden energy burst enough to shake him from his coma and kickstart the antidote, but not enough to overcome the poison’s effect all at once. Slowly, the eyes closed again, his face slightly more relaxed than before. The heart monitor stopped its frantic beeping and returned to normal parameters.

Jemma swallowed, then removed her hand from Rumlow’s arm and stood. The team looked at her. Finally, Skye quipped: “It could have been worse. At least the words are good."

* ∼ *

This time, Brock woke more himself. His training kicked in, he knew immediately where he was and what had happened. Well, almost. He knew that he had passed out from the pain, and that _something_ must have happened in the meantime, because now the pain was completely gone. He had a vague memory of... an angel? _Don’t be ridiculous. That can’t be right._ Coulson must have been lying, after all, and administered the antidote after he had fallen unconscious.

A quick inventory told Brock that his shoulder was still hurting after being dislocated, but the rest of his body was fine. Well, hungry as hell after more than two days without food, but somebody must have hooked him up to a saline solution because he at least felt hydrated. S.H.I.E.L.D. apparently wanted him alive. _If they think I will give them intel, they’re gonna be disappointed. I may not owe any loyalty to Hydra anymore, but S.H.I.E.L.D. has done even less for me._ Since he hadn’t really been in his right mind when he had talked to Coulson, Brock decided it made more sense to open his eyes and assess his situation than to pretend to still be asleep. He was alone in a very small hospital room, a heart monitor was blinking quietly in the corner. There was a glass window that opened onto a narrow hallway, no window to the outside. He could hear a low, deep humming in the background. _Of course, I must be on the famous Bus._

Okay, so what now? Being trapped in Hydra’s medical center meant that Brock had missed the first five months of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s new leadership, but he had read up on it afterwards, and followed the news coverage ever since. Ever since Coulson’s passionate speech at the U.N. General Assembly and the vetting of all remaining S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel by the commission lead by King T’Chaka, there had been a close collaboration between S.H.I.E.L.D. and the different security agencies. Whenever an American native was arrested by S.H.I.E.L.D., they questioned him and handed him off to the CIA, the FBI, the military, or whoever else could make a legitimate claim on them. Afterwards, there was always either a civil trial or a Court Martial, and quite a few former Hydra operatives had been sentenced to death already. That, or lifelong imprisonment at a high-security facility. Some lucky ones had even been brought to the Avengers’ prison, which the media called ‘the Hole’ – not without reason, it had been designed by Romanoff herself and was supposed to be impenetrable.

Brock didn’t plan on following that route. Since S.H.I.E.L.D. knew what he was capable of, his best bet would be to escape now, before they got to any secure base. _All right, then. Get out of the restraints, find the way to the cargo bay, steal a parachute, and hope like hell that we’re not still over the Pacific._ But even if they were, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s parachutes could be converted to a lifeboat, and somebody would hopefully pick him up sooner or later. He’d cross that bridge once he came to it.

Brock had just started to examine his restraints (handcuffs on the wrists, leather straps with metal buckles on the ankles) when all the lights switched off, along with the heart monitor. Then an alarm sounded and red lights started flashing on the hallway, while a computer voice announced: “Please proceed to the nearest emergency-approved seat immediately. Heavy turbulences, evading actions or an emergency landing are probable. Please proceed to the nearest emergency-approved seat immediately. Heavy turbulences, evading..."

_Great. Just what I need_, Brock thought glumly. Then he realized that right now, the other passengers had more pressing problems than checking on their prisoner, and corrected himself: _Hm. Actually, it might really be just what I need._

He shook his left hand to loosen the muscles, then used the handcuff itself and a quick wrist movement to dislocate his thumb. Fuck, that always hurt like hell. The cuff was really tight, even with the dislocated thumb it was hard to get out of it, and he almost screamed from the additional pain. He’d really had enough of that for the day. As soon as the hand was free, he moved it towards the other side and used the right hand to pop the joint back where it belonged. Ow.

The plane lurched. Brock briefly lifted off his bed, held back by the remaining three restraints, before the plane stabilized and he fell back onto the mattress. Whatever this was, Brock hoped that the Cavalry had it under control. Fumbling a bit due to his hurting and already swelling thumb, Brock pulled the catheter out from underneath the thick bandage (_no time to unwrap it now, it doesn’t do any harm, leave it till later_) and used it to pick the lock on the second handcuff. There. The restraints on his feet should now be a piece of–

The plane abruptly took a nosedive and Brock hastily grabbed the metal railings of his bed. He held on for dear life as the plane bucked and struggled, but his gut told him that they were going _too steep_, _too fast_. He hadn’t survived the poison only to die in a plane crash.

Brock was pressed into the bed as the plane was pulled up a bit, but they were still going down. He had no idea what was going on, the computer voice was still talking, the lights still flashing, but apart from that, he couldn’t hear anything – no gunfire, no shouts, nothing. He didn’t even know how close to the ground they were now.

Apparently very close, because there was a sudden series of loud crashes and screeching, combined with shaking of the plane and a strong deceleration. Then there was a particularly strong blow to something close to him, and suddenly Brock’s world was spinning, the window was no longer looking onto the hallway but something blue– no, something green– no, something–

Brock must have lost a second or two. When he came back to his senses, there was a terrible pain in his abdomen. He was hanging from the restraints on his ankles, the room itself turned by almost ninety degrees such that what had been the door to the hallway was now an inclined floor. A floor which was quickly filling with water. _Shit._

Dreading what he wood find, Brock looked down his body. A metal rod, its diameter roughly the same as Brock’s pinky, had embedded itself on the far right of his abdomen. _Shit, shit, shit._ The water was rising quickly, he couldn’t allow himself to hesitate. So Brock gritted his teeth, wrapped his right hand around the rod and pulled. There was a spurt of blood, but not as much as he had feared. Pulling himself along the metal railing of the bed, Brock managed to reach the restraints around his ankles. The buckles were quickly opened and Brock tumbled into the water. There was medical equipment floating everywhere, the whole room in utter chaos. From what Brock could see, the door had stayed closed during the crash, but the window had partly shattered. The water had stopped rising. Maybe he had landed in a shallow lake or river? _Better than the ocean, that’s for sure._

But the remaining air would not last forever, he still had to get out. With one hand pressed to the wound in his abdomen, he used his feet to estimate the size of the hole in the window. Not quite large enough. Brock swallowed, leaned his free hand against what had once been the ceiling and stamped his boot against the damaged window. The glass was damned thick. Brock felt his strength wane as blood ran down his side. Was he imagining it, or was the air getting thinner? Finally, Brock decided that what he had done had to be enough or he would pass out before he actually got to use the hole. Taking a deep breath, he dove into the water. It was so murky that he couldn’t see exactly where he had to go and the hole was rather small, so he cut his hands and his clothes as he wriggled through. Exhaustion was pulling at him, telling him to just let go– but Brock was a fighter. Finally, he made it through and straightened up, breaching the surface of the water.

Brock was greeted by a dense tropical forest and warm, humid air. _That’s... unexpected._ Dizzy from blood loss, Brock waded to the river bank. Who knew if there were dangerous fish in the river that got attracted by his blood. Or hell, with his luck, there might even be _crocodiles_. He made it onto the dry land. There, he allowed his trembling legs to fold and landed heavily on his knees.

Tiredly, Brock thought: _Okay, this is my chance. The med pod seems to have detached from the plane, at least I can’t see it anywhere. So if I hurry, I can get far enough away that they won’t be able to find me in this forest. Now that the poison’s been neutralized, I can handle things on my own. Right? It can’t be too far to the next village or some other place where I can steal a ride. And find out where the hell I even am._

Brock’s thoughts were a lot more optimistic than his weak, hurting body justified. He should probably try to put a tourniquet on the wound in his abdomen, or he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. But he was so tired... Brock’s eyes fell on the wet, slightly muddy bandage around his arm. Better than nothing. With hands that were shaking from pain and fatigue, he unwrapped the bandage. _Wait, what?_ There was something on his skin. His vision was swimming, but he forced his eyes to focus and made out neat, feminine handwriting. _That sounds like you’re going to be a piece of work, huh?_

“What the fuck?" Brock blinked stupidly at his arm. _Is that a soulmark? It can’t possibly be..._

He was shaken out of his stupor by a bolt of pain from his abdomen, and tried to start wrapping the bandage around his torso. With a grunt of pain, he froze. Moving his arm _hurt_. Maybe he could... He should... His mind was refusing to work properly, and he lost another few seconds just staring at his shaking hands. Then there was a voice from behind him.

“Freeze!"

Brock blinked. Coulson, that voice belonged to Coulson. He felt strangely calm about that.

“Put your hands behind your head, slowly. And then get up and turn around to face me."

“I didn’t know you had my soulmate", Brock rasped without moving. “Who is it?"

“I said, put your hands behind your head."

“It can’t be May, I talked to her before. And it sure as hell isn’t you." Brock felt light-headed. The whole situation seemed completely surreal.

“I have an ICER gun. I don’t know what the toxin is going to do with the rests of the other poison still in your system, but I _will_ use it on you if you don’t do as I say."

Brock could hear Coulson step around him. He knew that he was close to fainting. It seemed like the shock of finding out he had a soulmate, and she was _here_, combined with blood loss and all the other trauma of the past few days, was too much even for someone like him. “So it must be FitzSimmons, or your famous hacker." Brock huffed out a slightly hysterical laugh, then regretted it as pain shot through him. He groaned and pressed a hand to his wound.

“Oh damn", Coulson cursed. He must have put away the gun, because he was suddenly right in front of Brock, pushing his hand away and examining the wound. “How did that happen?"

“Got impaled on some medical equipment", Brock grunted. It felt almost natural to report to Coulson. Well, they _had_ been working for the same organization for a long time. “Then had to dive out of the med pod." Brock groaned again as Coulson balled up his handkerchief (Really? Who even used those anymore?), pressed it to the wound and secured it with the bandage. Then, after a minimal hesitation, Coulson pulled a pair of handcuffs from his jacket and bound Brock’s hands in front of his body. Brock knew better than to put up a fight in his current condition.

“So who is it?"

Coulson sighed. “You will find out soon enough. Let’s get you back to the others, first." Then he stood back up, turned towards the direction he had come from and shouted: “Skye! Over here!"

It didn’t take long until Brock heard the crashes of someone not used to it breaking through the undergrowth. A young female voice asked: “Sir?"

“He’s injured, I need your help getting him back to the Bus."

Then she stepped into Brock’s line of sight. “Not you", he mused, “not my type."

“What?" She sounded slightly affronted. “Walk by yourself, then."

“He means that you’re not his soulmate", Coulson explained mildly. “He found the soulmark on his arm."

“Hmpf", the woman – Skye, apparently – conceded. Then they each grabbed one of Brock’s arms and pulled him up. He couldn’t prevent himself from giving a small shout of pain as the movement pulled on his wound. Coulson seemed rather worried, which in turn worried Brock, because the man had a reputation as being remarkably unshakable.

The three slowly made their way through the dense jungle. It was easy to see where the med pod had mowed down smaller trees before ending up in the river. But since the pod had detached from the much heavier plane while still in the air, the group now had to go almost at right angles to this trail until they reached the larger swath of destruction left by the plane. Amazingly enough, the plane seemed to have stayed in one piece, albeit a rather scratched and battered piece whose belly had been ripped open. Smoke was coming from the cockpit and one of the turbines. Through half-closed eyes, Brock could see three people in a natural clearing some hundred meters from the plane. As they got closer, the three looked up.


	2. Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this isn't how EMPs work, but remember that "Comic book science" tag? This is the same universe that has a Hulk and a guy who can enter the quantum world with his suit, so I'd say I'm only straining credibility a little...

Jemma waited anxiously for Coulson and Skye to come back from their mission to find the missing prisoner. What if Rumlow had managed to escape? According to May, they had crashed on a small, uninhabited island that was located in the middle of the ocean, far off from any trade routes. So Rumlow shouldn’t be able to get very far. Still, a trained specialist might be able to hide for a long time in this jungle – or simply kill himself if he didn’t want to be found. Jemma didn’t quite know how she felt about that. Yes, the man was a traitor to S.H.I.E.L.D. and everything she believed in, but he was also her _soulmate_. Her natural curiosity, if nothing else, compelled her to find out more about him, maybe determine why fate thought they belonged together. Not to mention that without him, she would die within a few weeks.

Finally, May alerted her and Fitz to approaching noises. All three of them looked out for the source and were relieved when they recognized their colleagues. However, Jemma was rather surprised to see that Rumlow was soaking wet.

“Director? What happened?"

“The med pod landed in a river, Rumlow had to dive out of it." Both Jemma and Fitz blanched. They had very, very bad memories of being underwater in a med pod. Coulson knew this, of course, so he added: “The river wasn’t deep, the pod only landed on its side. But apparently Rumlow got stabbed by some equipment during the crash, and he has lost a lot of blood. So we need to set up some emergency treatment immediately."

Now that he had pointed it out, Jemma became aware of the way Rumlow seemed to curl around his stomach, and the blood-soaked bandage. “Oh dear. Of course."

Professional that she was, May had taken the first-aid-kit with her when she’d left the smoking cockpit. It contained a space blanket, which Jemma placed on the ground, then she waved Coulson and Skye over. Carefully, they lowered their patient onto the blanket. He groaned but didn’t say anything. His gaze was slightly unfocused, Jemma wasn’t sure if he was even fully awake. Or he might suffer from a concussion?

Rumlow’s eyes fell on Jemma’s face, and there was a tiny smile on his lips. “Could be you", he murmured. “Definitely my type."

Before Jemma had a chance to come up with a response to that cryptic sentence, the prisoner closed his eyes.

Jemma put on surgical gloves with practiced ease, then pushed Rumlow’s bound hands away from his stomach, unwrapped the bandage and peeled back the damaged, wet jumper and the underlying shirt. She pursed her lips. There was a stab wound the size of her pinky finger, oozing blood. She slid her hand underneath Rumlow’s back to make sure there was no exit wound, then returned her attention to his stomach. Jemma lightly poked around the edges of the wound to feel if bits of the object had broken off and been left inside the wound. There was a bitten-off groan and Rumlow’s stomach muscles clenched. “Shh, it’s okay", Jemma muttered absent-mindedly, completely focused on her task. The wound seemed to be clean. With a glance at her blood stained hands, she asked: “Fitz, could you please get some disinfectant, needle and thread for me? And I guess we can risk a local aneasthetic, it shouldn’t interact with whatever’s left of the poison or the antidote."

The engineer did as Jemma had asked, so she proceeded to numb the area with an injection and stitch the wound as well as she could. She would have preferred to hand this job over to an actual medical professional in a real hosital with better monitoring equipment (like ultrasound – gosh, any number of organs might have been hurt, but she couldn’t see, let alone treat any of them), but needs must. Rumlow was breathing shallowly the whole time but didn’t say anything and didn’t open his eyes.

By the time Jemma was done, May and Coulson had used the fire extinguishers to put out the fires in the cockpit and the turbine. Fitz and Skye had cleared the rest of the plane and judged it safe.

“The radio and the navigation system in the cockpit are dead, so I brought the paper maps", May explained. “It looks like we crashed here: Catalina Island, officially belongs to Spain. But that doesn’t have to mean much. There are no settlements shown on the map and the island’s completely out of the way of any shipping routes, I don’t think anyone’s going to find us by chance."

Coulson hmmed. “It’s mission policy to check in before going dark, so hopefully someone in Ops will wonder why they haven’t heard from us in a day or two. They knew we were in Singapore..."

“And I talked to Singapore Air Traffic Control when we lifted off", May added.

Coulson nodded. “Then S.H.I.E.L.D. should be able to figure out that we crashed. In the worst case, they’ll ask Stark for access to his satellites. The Bus mowed down a lot of trees, that should be clearly visible from the air."

May inclined her head. “But all in all, it could easily take them two or three days to find us."

“I’m not entirely sure Rumlow has that long. Without proper medical care, I mean", Jemma interjected. Coulson nodded thoughtfully. “Fitz, Skye, what’s the status of the rest of the plane?"

“There’s quite a bit of damage in the lab", Fitz reported. “Everything on the tables has fallen down and the breakables are broken. The cabinets are still secure, though. We really should have tidied stuff up more."

Skye made a face behind his back, then added: “Our bunks are still intact, I guess we could take shelter there if we have to. The common room is also mostly fine, but the cargo bay got ripped open and the corridor where the med bay was attached is just rubble."

“How about the supplies?", Coulson asked.

Fitz shrugged. “The power in the kitchen is off, so everything in the fridge will probably spoil soon. But the dried goods are still in the storage area, together with the MREs."

“That’s an interesting point", May interjected.

“MREs? I’m really not a fan", Fitz muttered.

May gave him a quelling look and corrected: “The missing power. That’s what caused our crash: all instruments and the complete board electronics just switched off. There are quite a few failsaves built into the Bus, but none of them worked. So the turbine regulation must have failed as well, which caused the explosion of the left turbine and made us crash."

“Then how come we heard the alarm and got the nice disco lights?", Skye asked.

May shrugged. “They work on batteries."

“What, and there’s no backup batteries in the engine controls?", Skye asked skeptically.

“Actually, there is", May replied with a frown.

Suddenly, there was a hoarse voice from the floor. “EMP."

Everyone stared at Rumlow. “What?", Skye finally asked.

“An EMP fries everything that’s connected to a power source when it goes off. The alarm wasn’t on when the pulse came, the engine control was." Rumlow’s voice was weak, but there was a certain smugness to his explanation.

As their resident engineer, Fitz clearly felt challenged. “How come you know so much about EMPs?"

Rumlow opened his eyes and smirked. “Cause I work with them all the time."

“What, did _you_ cause this?", Skye asked incredulously.

Rumlow’s eyebrows almost hit his hairline. “Yeah, sure. I sneaked on your plane while I was hiding from you, and then made sure I almost died in the crash."

Skye flushed, embarassed, and opened her mouth to retaliate. Before she could dig herself an even deeper hole, Coulson intervened. “If the plane’s electronics are unreparably damaged, we have to find some way to call for help. Fitz, Skye, you two check if there’s really no way to get our systems back up, and if there isn’t, try to find some way to communicate with S.H.I.E.L.D. May and I will scout the area, see if there are people nearby after all and try to find out what might have caused the EMP. Simmons, you will watch over our prisoner."

As everyone rushed off, Jemma clutched the ICER Coulson had given her rather self-consciously. Rumlow was staring up at her with a wry expression. “So. _Are_ you my soulmate?"

Jemma licked her lips nervously. Now that they were stuck on this island, it was going to come out sooner or later anyway, wasn’t it? She lifted her chin defiantly. “Yes."

Rumlow cocked his head. “Did I talk to you while I was drugged?"

Jemma only nodded.

“What did I say?"

He seemed genuinely curious – not that that had to mean anything when it came from a trained specialist. Well, she had accepted the bond when she used it to save his life, so she might as well be civil to him and see where it lead. _In for a penny, in for a pound._ And it wasn’t like knowing the words would give him any advantage over her. So Jemma crossed her arms in front of her chest and replied: “Your exact words were: _So pretty..._"

That surprised a small laugh out of Rumlow. It made him look years younger. The effect was ruined by the pained grimace that followed immediately after, accompanied by a hand pressed to his wound. Still with a bit of humor in his voice, he finally said: “At least I was honest."

“Yes, well, I’m not sure someone who’s Hydra _can_ be honest." That came out a bit more harshly than Jemma had intended. In her defence, she had been betrayed by someone close to her before when Hydra revealed itself.

Rumlow’s smile dimmed. “Yeah, I’d expected that the whole Hydra thing might be a problem."

“_The whole Hydra thing?_ You were crucial to the launch of project Insight! You killed dozens of people!"

By now, Rumlow’s face had closed completely. “And _you_’ve never hurt anyone."

“Well, of course I have. But not intentionally, and not on that scale."

“Sure. Coulson called you Simmons. Jemma Simmons, right? Biochemist, two doctoral degrees, one half of the famous FitzSimmons?"

Jemma nodded, wary of where he was going.

“So I guess you were the one who developed the poison you gave me?"

“I was. But that’s different", Jemma said defensively.

“Oh yeah? Brutally effective torture drug like that, looks to me like Hydra would have been happy to hire you."

“Well, first of all, Hydra probably wouldn’t have developed an antidote, and even if they had, they wouldn’t have given it to uncooperative prisoners. And second, we are using it only as a last resort for violent criminals who are a danger to the populace and who have evaded all other attempts to capture them."

“Wow, I guess I should feel honoured, then", Rumlow drawled sarcastically.

Jemma felt herself get angry. The rational part of her mind recognized the signs from some of the nastier discussions she had had with Fitz – this conversation was getting out of hand. She had to calm down and get back on track. In an effort to even the playing field a bit and hopefully make Rumlow feel less defensive, Jemma sat down cross-legged on the ground and put the ICER gun on her lap. Keeping her voice carefully neutral, she asked: “Do you remember that you woke up once during the flight?"

Rumlow narrowed his eyes. “Maybe?"

“The antidote wasn’t working. It had taken us too long to find you."

“Yeah. Yeah, I remember that."

Jemma took a deep breath. “When I developed the poison, I did tests on animals. After five days without the antidote, their hearts failed. You were showing the same symptoms, so we had to do something."

Rumlow stared at her for a moment, then his eyes widened in realization. “You used the bond."

Jemma nodded.

  
* ∼ *

_No._ Brock’s first thought wasn’t very helpful. The second wasn’t, either: _This can’t be happening._ But while denial was every human’s first reaction to bad news, Brock had been trained to ignore his feelings and put the mission first. He drew on this training now and pushed down the instinctive panic. Could it be that Simmons was lying to him? _No. She seems to be completely serious, and she has nothing to gain by lying about this. It’d be too easy to prove her wrong._

So it was true, then. Simmons had activated the bond. This narrowed down Brock’s options immensely. Bonded pairs became dependent on each other. Their hormones adjusted in a way that they literally could not live without the other. There were benefits, of course, such as the ability to lend the partner some of one’s own strength, and in older bonds also a telepathic link that allowed communication over a distance of several miles – but the main point was that Brock would never be able to leave Simmons again. _Never._

The second stage of grief is anger, and Brock had plenty of that. How _dare_ she activate the bond without his consent? Yes, yes, she’d said it was done to save Brock’s life. But Simmons had developed the poison herself, and if she and her team hadn’t given it to him, Brock’s life wouldn’t have needed saving in the first place. And it wasn’t even the fact that she had helped to torture him that made him so angry. In their business, you had to be able to forgive that kind of thing. No, what almost made him lose control was that with one small act, she’d effectively dashed his hopes of ever being free again. Brock wanted to yell at her. He wanted to do more than that, he wanted to grab her pretty neck and squeeze the life out of her – but he couldn’t do that without killing himself, too. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

From the way Simmons flinched back, some of Brock’s rage must have shown on his face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was time to stop feeling and to start thinking like a STRIKE Commander. Brock had to come up with a plan, but he was loopy from hunger and pain and his thoughts refused to focus. Brock needed more time. And he needed more intel.

Brock opened his eyes again. Forcing his voice to remain calm, he asked: “So what are you gonna do now?"

Simmons grimaced. “First, I would like to get off this island, and let an actual medical doctor have a look at you. Then..." She sighed, still looking at him warily. “I haven’t hashed out the details with Director Coulson yet, but we were planning to take you back to base with us. What happens then depends on your behaviour: we could lock you up, but we could probably also find some more pleasent arrangement."

“I see", Brock murmured tonelessly. There were laws for this special situation. If one partner of an active soulbond committed a serious crime but the other partner was an upstanding citizen (which was seldom enough – soulmates often thought alike), the trustworthy partner could vouch for the other one, sparing them a prison sentence. In Brock’s case, this would probably mean working for S.H.I.E.L.D. as a way to atone for his (perceived) sins. _Be careful what you wish for, huh? That’s not what I meant when I said I wanted to have a team again._

There was an uncomfortable silence, which was finally broken by the loud growling of Brock’s stomach. Simmons looked at him quizzically. Brock grimaced. He hated admitting weakness in front of the enemy, but in this case it was his best option. “The poison made me really nauseous, I haven’t eaten anything for the last three days."

“Well, we gave you liquid and nutrients through the IV. But I can see that that doesn’t stop you from being hungry", Simmons said, looking thoughtful. Then she apparently came to a decision, because she got up with the words “Wait a second" and went over to the plane. As she had already gone a few steps, Brock could hear her mutter under her breath: “It’s not like he could go anywhere."

Then he was finally alone.

Brock allowed his body to relax against the spongy ground. Even though the local aneasthetic was taking the edge off the pain in his stomach, he was feeling awful. There were a number of smaller cuts on his body that burned unpleasantly, the thumb on his left hand was swollen to about twice its normal size, the handcuffs were chafing his wrists, his shoulder still hurt, and his stomach was cramping from hunger. Brock felt strangely hollowed out. The conversation had sapped his last strength, and he could feel a headache building behind his eyes. Why was this jungle so damned bright? He closed his eyes.

Brock must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he was surrounded by hushed voices.

“... and we had just started scanning the frequencies when there was a spark and it went dead." That was the engineer’s voice.

“Another EMP?" Coulson. Fitz must have replied nonverbally, because Coulson continued with: “So we have to assume that there can be another anytime. Which means that we cannot simply build radio after radio and hope that we finish a message before it is destroyed."

“No", Fitz agreed. “Especially because we only have parts for maybe two more attempts."

Brock slowly opened his eyes. The team was standing a few meters from him, their faces serious. Right next to his head, there were a water bottle and – two cups of JELL-O?

“But I have some good news. The range of the EMP has to be limited, and I would bet that we’ll be safe on the other side of the mountains."

“And what if you’re wrong?", May injected.

The young engineer’s good mood could not be dampened so easily. “That’s why I built this." He held up a device the size of his hand. “Here, you can pull out an antenna. If there’s an EMP, a current is induced and you can see a little spark here." Brock couldn’t see what Fitz was pointing at, but everybody else was leaning over it. “So all we have to do is check it regularly, and if we don’t see a spark for, say, an hour or so, we can risk powering up the radio."

“Good thinking", Coulson praised him. “But it means that, depending on the range of whatever’s causing the EMPs, we might have to walk quite far."

Fitz nodded again. For the first time, Jemma spoke up. “There’s no way that Rumlow can participate. It seems like no major organs were hit by whatever impaled him, or he would probably be dead already, but I still don’t want to risk him injuring himself further."

“No, definitely not", Coulson agreed. “Not with your life on the line, too. He will stay here, and so will you to check on his health. May will stay with you in case there are any wild animals around."

“Ooh, do you think there are monkeys on this island?", Fitz asked excitedly.

Coulson sighed. “Yes, there are, I saw some. But I was thinking more along the lines of feline predators, or large snakes."

Jemma visibly paled. May just shrugged. “We will stay in the Bus as much as we can. Most animals stay away from strange technology, especially if it smells as burnt as our plane does."

“Good. Fitz, do you think that you, Skye and myself will be able to carry the equipment?"

The engineer bit his lip. “I guess. Depends on what else we have to take. Do we need sleeping bags and tents and stuff?"

“Yes, we do. Come on, let’s see if the hiking gear has survived the crash." With that, Coulson, Skye and Fitz turned towards the plane. May disappeared somewhere in the forest, and Simmons slowly turned around to face Brock.

* ∼ *

Jemma startled when she met Rumlow’s piercing gaze. “Oh, you’re awake."

“Obviously. How long was I out?"

She shrugged. “Two hours, maybe? I brought you water and some jelly, that’s easy on the stomach and since the fridge is not working, it has to be eaten, anyway."

Rumlow nodded, then carefully pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing as his wound was agitated. He reached for the water bottle with slightly trembling hands and unscrewed the cap. Jemma watched him take a few sips. It was difficult to get a read on him. Earlier, when she had told him that she had activated the bond, she had been almost sure that he was going to attack her. Now he seemed awfully complacent. Either he was trying to lull her into a false sense of security, or he had accepted his fate and decided to cooperate. Unfortunately, Jemma would only find out for sure which of the two it was if he attacked her. That was less than ideal. Maybe it would help to get him talking? When in doubt, acquiring more data was usually a good idea. “If you don’t mind me asking – what happened to your thumb?"

Rumlow raised his eyebrows. “I dislocated it. Remember that you cuffed me to the bed?"

_Oh dear, I had forgotten_, Jemma thought. _How horrible it must have been to be tied to a bed, as the water was rising..._

“Hey, you okay?"

“Wh-what?", Jemma asked a bit shakily.

“You went rather white, there. Squeamish about people hurting themselves?"

In anybody else, Jemma would have called the tone teasing. In a Hydra member, she wasn’t sure what it meant. Still, she found herself saying: “It’s not that. It’s just – I have a... thing about being trapped underwater."

Rumlow turned serious. “Ever happened to you?"

Jemma didn’t really know why she trusted Rumlow with this information. He was Hydra, for goodness’ sake. Maybe it was the fact that he was her soulmate, or her earlier resolve to get him talking that made her nod. “You must know Grant Ward, don’t you?"

“Garrett’s favourite. Of course I do."

“Did you know that he was a part of our team before the Hydra uprising?"

Rumlow shook his head. “Hydra’s almost fanatical about compartmentalization. I knew my own missions, knew some people that I had reported to before, but that was it. I knew Ward was Hydra, but I wasn’t informed of his missions."

“Well, his mission was to spy on us. And when Hydra came out..." Jemma’s voice broke. She pressed her lips together and concentrated on her breathing for a while. “Let’s just say that Fitz and I were locked into the med pod, which Ward ejected when we were flying low above the ocean."

“Shit", Rumlow swore. “But they are designed to swim, aren’t they?"

Jemma grimaced. “In theory, yes. But ours sank, and we only had enough oxygen to get one person back to the surface. Fitz insisted I take it, and I pulled him back up with me. But he suffered from brain damage and it took months until he could speak again."

Rumlow’s mouth had tightened. “I’m sorry."

Jemma shrugged. “The betrayal hurt more than the physical pain. Ward is still at the top of our most-wanted list."

Rumlow wisely remained silent at that. He had put the bottle back and grabbed a cup of jelly. He grimaced as he had to lean over to reach it.

“Is the anaesthetic wearing off?"

Rumlow nodded. Jemma pursed her lips. “We don’t have much left, most of the stock was stored in the med pod. Maybe we should try to get you into the Bus while it’s at least still partially effective."

“Sounds like a plan", Rumlow agreed.

Jemma left for the plane and returned shortly after with Coulson. The director asked: “How are you feeling?"

“Like somebody impaled me with a chopstick", Rumlow answered sarcastically.

Coulson just smiled pleasantly. “Good. Then this won’t make much of a difference." With that, he took Rumlow’s right arm, waited until Jemma had grabbed the other side and pulled him up. Rumlow grunted with pain and Jemma had to grip him more tightly as he swayed.

“You gonna keel over?", Coulson asked neutrally, as if he was inquiring about the weather. Rumlow carefully shook his head no. “Good. Come on then."

The three of them walked the short distance to the open emergency exit over the half-broken left wing. Somebody had thoughtfully built a small set of stairs out of two metal boxes. After they had scaled the door, the trio arrived in the living room, which had only suffered slight damage. “I checked the couch, there are no glass shards on it", Jemma explained with a nod to the piece of furniture in question. With a groan, Rumlow sat down.

“Okay. Don’t move, I’ll get the jelly." Jemma’s words were greeted by yet another sarcastic eyebrow, but she ignored it and went back outside to fetch the water bottle and the two cups of dessert. When she returned, she found Rumlow with closed eyes and his head leaning against the backrest. _Is he already asleep again?_ She cleared her throat.

“It’s okay, I’m awake", Rumlow said in his gravelly voice. He opened his eyes and looked in her direction. “I think the blood loss is catching up with me."

“Then you should eat and drink something", Jemma said resolutely and pressed the food into his hands. She took a seat on the armchair opposite the couch and watched as Rumlow ate the jelly. He seemed to be quite used to eating while handcuffed. Jemma determinedly suppressed the small voice squeeing in her head, _That’s my soulmate, my honest-to-God soulmate! He’s smoking hot, and he is sitting right in front of me! My soulmate!_ Now was really not the time.

Rumlow had just finished his meal and placed the empty cups on the coffee table (they had learned from their experience, and gotten one with a plexiglass plate in a metal frame) when May came in. She was carrying standard S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue training pants, boxershorts and a T-shirt, which she tossed on the table in front of Rumlow. He looked up at her with a mixture of surprise and suspicion, which deepened as she withdrew a key from her pocket and unlocked his cuffs.

“You’re still covered in mud and river water. I don’t need that on my couch, and you don’t need hypothermia."

“Thanks", Rumlow said with slightly less suspicion.

In deference to the injuries on his upper body, Jemma helped Rumlow take off his soiled jumper and shirt and put on the clean one. Then she and May retreated to just outside the door while their prisoner finished getting changed, which is where Coulson found them. “We’re all set", he explained to the two women, and waved them back inside where the rest of the team was waiting. “It will turn dark in about an hour, so we have decided to set out early tomorrow morning. Fitz and Skye, I want you to take the first watch, May will take the second and I will take the last. Simmons, you gave a lot of energy to our prisoner and might have to do it again if our rescue takes longer than expected, you should try to get as much sleep as you can."

Nobody argued. The three youngest members of the team raided the kitchen and threw together a cold meal while May and Coulson poured over the old-fashioned atlas that they had found in one of the book shelves in Coulson’s office. Rumlow, now back in handcuffs, had lain down on the couch and closed his eyes, but it was hard to tell if he was really asleep or only pretending to be. Jemma decided to leave him be for the evening – it wasn’t exactly fair to press him further while he was so badly injured. After dinner, she said goodnight to her team and retreated to her cabin.

For the first time since finding out about her soulmate, she was truly alone. Jemma’s head was spinning. “What have I gotten myself into?", she asked the ceiling. _My soulmate, my other half, the person that completes me – is a member of Hydra. And not just a misguided foot soldier, either, he’s an_ officer. _He’s number four on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most-wanted list! Well, okay, I guess he was, now that we’ve caught him._ Jemma took a shaking breath. _How can somebody like_ that _be the perfect compliment to my own soul? Is it because I’m secretly as bad as he is, as he implied when he talked about the poison? Or is it because I’m – I don’t know, ‘the light to his darkness’? I just don’t_ understand.

After a few seconds, Jemma blinked with a sudden realization. _And there is no way I_ could _understand this, is there? Not until I’ve found out a lot more about him. The true Brock Rumlow, not what his S.H.I.E.L.D. dossier is telling me._

* ∼ *

Brock was dozing. His training forbade him to let his guard down while in the enemy’s hand, but he doubted that the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents would do anything to harm him. Not with their colleague tied to his fate, and especially not now that his health was already so bad. He knew his own body, knew how much he could take and how much things usually impaired him, and a wound like this should not be half as bad as it was now. _Must be the remains of that stupid poison in my system._ He had decided that getting his strength back had to be his top priority, so he allowed himself the rest. Meanwhile, he was trying to come up with a plan.

Brock was known as a good tactician. He looked at a situation, decided what needed to be done, and saw to it that it actually _got_ done, no matter the price. It was what had gotten him quickly promoted in Hydra’s ranks, and ultimately also why Fury had chosen him as commander of STRIKE. His analytical mind had come up with a number of options for his current situation, but in the end, it boiled down to three alternatives: escaping and then dying within a few weeks due to a lack of his soulmate’s hormones, kidnapping Simmons and keeping her prisoner for the rest of their lives, or staying and hoping for a soulmate appeal.

As far as Brock was concerned, dying was out. Two years ago, he had been willing to sacrifice himself for the Cause, for Hydra’s new world order. That had backfired spectacularly. Five months in the tender care of Hydra’s doctors, where he could overhear them whispering about what was going on in the agency, had convinced Brock that the remaining leaders were incompetent fools that didn’t really believe in the Cause anymore. And that included the doctors, who were either trying to satisfy their own sadistic desires or had a _very_ strange view of medical research, and had only joined Hydra because it provided them with a steady stream of test subjects. This revelation had been a bitter pill to swallow, especially because Brock was still sure that Hydra’s new world order would have improved the lives of many people. Well, fuck them all, Brock didn’t owe Hydra anything, he sure as hell wouldn’t die for them now, not even to take down one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most important scientists with him.

Kidnapping Simmons... well. She didn’t seem to find Brock too repulsive, she’d said that she was considering giving him a chance. So maybe Stockholm syndrome would be enough to sway her to see his side of things, once they’d been on the run for a few weeks. Unfortunately, Coulson knew about Stockholm syndrome, too. Which meant that he wouldn’t believe Simmons if she asked him to stop searching for her. Since S.H.I.E.L.D. had already proven that they were able to find him, staying ahead of them forever seemed unlikely. And if Coulson managed to convince the Avengers that Brock was a priority, his chances were very slim indeed. After such a stunt, there would be no way that Coulson would agree to a deal, and Brock would be faced with lifelong imprisonment. Not an encouraging prospect.

That left cooperation with Coulson’s team, and hoping that he could convince Simmons to vouch for him. And Coulson to give him a second chance. And a judge to sign off on it. _Not easy. Not easy at all._ However, the fact that Simmons was his soulmate indicated that she at least had the capacity to like him. He could build on that. From what he’d seen today and heard about her beforehand, convincingly renouncing Hydra and swearing loyalty to S.H.I.E.L.D. should be a good start. And it wouldn’t even be a total lie, considering that he didn’t plan on ever working for Hydra again. About being loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D...

There were a few people Brock really didn’t want to meet again. Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff came to mind. As a kid, Brock had admired Captain America like any boy did. It was hard not to root for freedom and justice over crazy evil Nazi scientists. As a young soldier, he’d respected the man’s balls, and his intuitive understanding of good military strategy. As a high-ranking Hydra agent forced to work with him, Brock had grudgingly admitted to himself that Rogers was a competent operative on whom a team could rely one hundred percent. But he’d known that Captain America was an old-fashioned idealist who would never accept that Hydra’s new world order was the solution to most of humanity’s problems. So Rogers had been unavoidable collateral damage – but as Brock had told him, it hadn’t been personal. Until the day Rogers, Romanoff and their unholy ability to beat impossible odds had wrecked everything Brock had been working for. And had cost the lives of most – all? Brock had never dared to check – of his team mates. _Ordering Jack to guard Secretary Pierce. Fighting Carter in the control room, starting to make his way up to the council, only to hear dispatch in his ear, “Sir, the council’s been breached. Black Widow’s up there." Trying to get there, but being waylaid by Rogers’ buddy and then being buried by the collapsing building._ Brock was very sure that Romanoff had killed the only real friend he’d ever had. Yeah, if he ever had to lay eyes on either of them again, he hoped it was going to be through a scope. But if he ended up working for S.H.I.E.L.D. again, he would probably have to cooperate with the Avengers sooner or later.

And the agency itself – they thought they were the good guys. Protection, that’s what Fury always said their main goal was. But Brock had seen enough of the agency to know about the skeletons in its closet. In some respects, S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn’t that different from Hydra. God, how he’d hated the thought of acceptable casualty rates. In his opinion, it was quite telling that Hydra had been able to operate within the agency for _decades_ without anyone noticing. After having told Hydra quite clearly to go fuck themselves, Brock wasn’t too keen on joining S.H.I.E.L.D. – even if they hadn’t known about his betrayal and had treated him as a valued high-level agent. Which they wouldn’t. It was delusional to think that S.H.I.E.L.D. would offer him his old position. Brock would have to start at the very bottom of the pecking order, probably heavily monitored and under house arrest if not incarcerated outright. It would take hard work to gain anybody’s trust. Once burnt, twice shy and all that jazz. Also, he did not look forward to facing the people he’d fought or whose friends he’d killed. Agent Carter, for example, would be a formidable enemy if she decided to make his life hell. And all that pleasantness was the best case scenario, if Simmons agreed to vouch for him, risking her own freedom for his. But Brock wouldn’t be Brock if he shied from difficult tasks. Out of the three alternatives, this was still the best option.

_All right. I will be nice enough that Simmons likes me, but not so nice that she thinks I’m a wimp, or that I’m trying to con her. And if it works, if she decides she doesn’t want to let me rot in prison for the rest of my life, then S.H.I.E.L.D. will probably make me a deal. At least if I have something to offer them. Like information. And of course a trained specialist with two decades of experience._ He huffed. _I’ve worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. before, I’ll be able to stomach the parts I don’t like. And to keep my mouth shut when all those goody two-shoes rip me a new one for what I’ve done in the past. After all, I’m a good actor. I’ll just have to hope that it’ll be a while before I cross the path of the Avengers._

Brock listened to the quiet chatter of Simmons and the other two younger members of the team as they prepared dinner. Resignation settled over him like a heavy cloak. _I might as well accept that this is gonna be my future, and try to make the most of it. Try to get along with my soulmate, and her friends of course. No use crying over spilt milk and all that. Resenting them for ruining my life isn’t gonna help me at all. Come on, Rumlow, you’re a big boy, you can handle it._ Even though that decision left a bad taste in his mouth, Brock was glad that he had a plan now. Time to start executing it. Step one: don’t die on this island. The best way to achieve this goal was probably to let his body try and heal itself, which would be helped by sleeping. So Brock slept.

Brock woke the next morning when somebody placed a full water bottle on the table in front of him. Brock opened his eyes.

Coulson sat in the armchair across from him and smiled pleasantly. “Rumlow. There are a few things I wanted to say before we leave."

Brock looked at him warily.

“You know that you will die without Agent Simmons, so I expect you to refrain from harming her, and to protect her if something unforeseen happens."

Brock narrowed his eyes at Coulson. “You know, I don’t appreciate being told what to do."

“Funny. I thought that’s exactly what you signed up for when you joined Hydra. But I wasn’t finished – the second thing concerns Agent May. I know that you feel threatened by her, your acting skills aren’t the best at the moment."

Brock could feel his face heat. Okay, so he was nervous when the Cavalry was around – sue him, he had every reason to be!

“You should know that if you hurt Agent May, not only will my and, by extension, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s wrath follow you to the end of the world, but also your soulmate will never forgive you. Make sure that you really want that before doing anything regrettable."

“I don’t know if I should feel insulted or honoured", Brock drawled. “Honoured that you think I’m such a threat even with a hole through my stomach, and insulted that you think I’m stupid enough to kill the only decent pilot on this island."

Coulson’s smile never wavered. “We are clear, then. Try not to die." With these parting words, he got up and left the room.

Brock stared after him morosely. He appreciated sass, but only when he was fit enough to retaliate. _Well, at least he was decent enough to bring me more water_, Brock thought as he opened the bottle. He was feeling a bit light-headed. Speaking of bottles, he really needed to pee, and he didn’t think going outside in his current condition was a good idea, especially not alone and handcuffed. So he used the empty bottle from the day before, capped it and, with an evil smile, let it roll underneath the couch. You had to get your kicks where you could. Since nobody else seemed to be interested in his company, Brock stretched out again and went back to sleep.

The next time Brock woke up, his soulmate sat on the other side of the room, reading a book. “I do this far too seldomly", she said out of nowhere.

“What?", Brock asked as he sat up. “Crash a plane on a deserted tropical island?"

“No", Simmons answered and lifted the book. “Read an actual book. These days, it’s usually mission briefings, or maybe some scientific publications. But those are always digital documents on my tablet."

Brock found himself smiling slightly. “I know what you mean. I used to borrow travel accounts from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s library and read them between missions. Some of ’em were really well-written, and they were a good preparation for work abroad."

Jemma’s lips twitched into an answering smile. Then she apparently remembered who she was talking to and blushed slightly. Turning her gaze away, she said: “The others have left about three hours ago. May is outside, patrolling."

“I see. And you’re stuck guarding the prisoner?", Brock asked with a slight teasing in his voice.

Simmons reacted better than he had hoped, with playfully raised eyebrows. “Are you disappointed?"

“Not at all. Gives me a chance to get to know you better."

Unfortunately, that made Simmons sober up. “Yes. I assume that is part of why Director Coulson wanted me to stay here with you. He will expect my verdict as soon as we are back on base."

“And, what do you think so far?"

Simmons closed her book and turned to face him fully. “That’s hard to say, isn’t it? You certainly don’t seem as... as crazy or fanatical as many other Hydra agents I’ve met. But then again, I would have sworn Ward was my friend until he tried to kill me."

_Damn that man_, Brock thought grimly. _This would have been much easier without what he did._ Out loud, he said: “You know there’s nothing I could say to convince you I’m not like him, right?"

“Of course", Simmons nodded. “But I would still like to find out more about you. Starting with why you joined Hydra."

“You don’t do things by halves, do you?" Brock sighed. “But before we go into that, there’s one other thing you should know. I left Hydra after Insight failed."

Simmons didn’t seem too surprised. “We thought you might have. We’ve followed your activities for quite a while, and they did look more like independent solo-work than typical Hydra missions. But we also know that you were very high up in Hydra’s hierarchy, so our analysts thought it was unlikely you would become disloyal."

Brock cleared his throat uncomfortably. Disloyal. Not that long ago, that word in connection to him could have gotten Brock killed. Hell, he himself wouldn’t have thought twice about killing members of his own team, men and women that he saw almost as family, if he’d thought they were disloyal. How things had changed. “After I had the Triskelion crash on me, it took Hydra months and a lot of experimental medicine to get me back to health. I had a lot of time to think in that hospital. And I realized that the reason I originally joined Hydra – creating a new, better world order – was further away from becoming reality than ever before. Then I heard about Captain Rogers and his friends raiding base after base, and S.H.I.E.L.D. rising again under Coulson, and decided to leave while I still could."

Brock looked up to Simmons’ face. She didn’t seem convinced. “So, what, they just let you go after spending so many resources on you?"

“Not exactly, no." Brock couldn’t keep the bitter smile off his face. It had been a pleasure to kill the doctors who had not only nursed him back to health, but also used him for other experimental treatments and thought he didn’t realize, the fools. And the guards, of course. _Those stupid fuckers who thought they were better than me, just because they didn’t get defeated during the Insight debacle. Well, they never had to face Captain bloody America – they weren’t even anywhere_ near _the action when the shit came down._ Out loud, he only said: “I had to fight my way out, but Hydra got the message. And besides, between S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers, they had more important things to do than hunting me."

“And then you became a free-lancer?"

“Yes", Brock confirmed. “Mostly as a thief, sometimes as a bodyguard or an assassin."

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? Killing people for money isn’t any less evil than killing them out of some misguided belief."

She was absolutely beautiful when she was riled like this, Brock thought suddenly. Fate may have had better taste than he gave it credit for. Nevertheless, he should still try to win her over while he had the chance and none of her buddies were there to bias her opinion. “But at least now, the few people I killed actually deserved to die. I’m pretty sure you’ll agree with me if you look it up in your files."

Simmons had her arms crossed defensively in front of her chest. She wasn’t happy with his answers. “Maybe we should get back to my original question first. Why did you join Hydra?"

Brock felt a flicker of nerves. Of course he’d known that he would have to answer this question sooner or later if he wanted to tip the scales towards ‘give him a chance to redeem himself’ rather than ‘lock him up for good’, but he had hoped that he would at least have time to get more coherent. _Ah well, maybe it’s better this way. If I tell it to my soulmate rather than a S.H.I.E.L.D. interrogator, and do it while I’m hurt and looking pityful, she might sympathize with me and defend me in front of her boss later. Out with the sob story, then._

“All right, let’s start at the beginning. I had a pretty shitty childhood: I was trailer trash, my mother was an alcoholic, I never even knew my dad. I got into fights at school, did some shoplifting. If the draftsman hadn’t come into my class one day, I probably would have ended up in jail for good. Instead, I joined the army. Lowest rank, of course, because I had no education to speak of. But I was finally in a place where I was judged for what I _did_, instead of for who I _was_. So I trained, hard. It was painful, but it was worth it. ‘Order only comes through pain’, that was the drill sergeant’s motto. And I found it was true. I collected recommendations, got promoted quickly, did some tours abroad. There were a few complaints because I took too many risks, was too harsh with our enemies. But the combination of the two brought me to the attention of a colonel, who invited me for a talk. He told me there was a secret agency that would be very happy to have someone with my skillset, and my willingness to do what had to be done to turn the world into a safer place. And I jumped at the chance to do something meaningful, to get even more recognition than I already did. So I joined Hydra. The colonel then contacted S.H.I.E.L.D. and recommended me, of course after cleaning some of the complaints from my file. And S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited me as well. You can probably guess the rest."

Simmons had listened intently without interrupting. Now she frowned. “If you really thought that you were working for a better world, how did you justify killing innocent people?"

_Now comes the hard bit. I gotta sound contrite enough that she’s willing to give me a chance, but not so much that she thinks it’s an act. All right, Rumlow, time to put your training to use._ Looking at the ceiling and keeping the barest hint of remorse in his voice, Brock explained: “Unless you’re obviously a psychopath or a seasoned merc, Hydra starts you off with morally easy missions. My first one was destroying a gun trafficking ring in Chechnya. The second was killing a drug dealer that S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted me to bring in alive, and a few similar tasks followed. I almost doubted my decision the first time I watched Hydra ‘discipline’ one of the other new recruits. But the higher-ups had a speech for us, about endangering the lives of our fellow agents, and even worse, endangering the Cause. In that moment, what they said seemed to make total sense." Brock shook his head slightly, a faraway look on his face.

Then he frowned. “After that, the missions gradually got more brutal, but by the time it was blatantly obvious that we were hurting innocent people, I was in too deep. I had already done so much that admitting Hydra was wrong would have meant admitting that I was a murderer. So I justified what I did by telling myself that some small sacrifices had to be made for the greater good." Brock laughed hollowly and finally looked over to Simmons. “It sounds really stupid now. But I had defined myself through my accomplishments as a fighter for so long that getting out wasn’t even an option. That is, until I was stuck in a Hydra medical center with third degree burns all over my body, and couldn’t stop them from experimenting on me."

Simmons grimaced. “That must have been awful."

_Gotcha._ Brock shrugged seemingly uncomfortably. “Yeah. But I got my revenge." When Simmons looked at him strangely, he elaborated: “I told you that I had to fight my way out. I made sure the doctors were dead before I left."

“I– guess I can understand that", Simmons reluctantly admitted. “But then why didn’t you turn yourself in?"

Brock snorted. “To whom? The police? Hydra still has too many moles hidden there. After what happened in D.C., relying on Captain America’s mercy didn’t seem too smart, either. And S.H.I.E.L.D... Let’s just say that I had heard rumours about the new leadership, but wasn’t willing to bet my life on it." Brock paused. _How much of the truth can I risk without pushing her away?_ He took a deep breath, or as deep as his wound allowed. _Only one way to find out._

“Also, to be completely honest: I regretted what I did, but I wasn’t willing to spend the rest of my life in a cell. I love my freedom too much."

Simmons pursed her lips. Brock could see that she was debating how to answer to that. In the end, she only nodded curtly and said: “I see."

Then there was silence. _Saying more right now won’t help. Best let her turn things over in that pretty head of hers._ Deciding to lighten the mood (and because his stomach was still cramping with hunger), Brock finally coughed and asked: “Any chance a guy might get some breakfast?"

That caused Simmons to blush prettily. “Oh dear, how remiss of me. I’ll get you something."

As Brock ate, May returned as well and heated up an MRE. She settled down in a chair across from Brock and watched him intently. It was enough to almost make his appetite disappear. Almost.

“Jemma, everything okay?", May asked carefully.

Brock’s soulmate smiled tightly. “Yes, everything’s fine. Did you see any animals?"

“Nothing we have to worry about right now."

They lapsed back into silence. When May was done eating, she turned to Simmons. “I’ll go back outside now, but I’ll stay close to the plane. If something happens, all you have to do is yell."

Simmons nodded with a smile, but the quick flick of her eyes towards Brock showed that she had understood perfectly.

Brock remained silent until the Cavalry had left the room. Then he allowed some of the exhaustion he felt to show on his face and said: “You must still have lots of questions, but – do you think they could wait a few hours? I’m still really wrung out, I guess it’d be good if I slept some more."

“No, of course", Simmons immediately agreed. “In fact, I should probably have a look at your wound. If you don’t mind."

_Do I mind being touched by a beautiful woman, who also happens to be my soulmate? What a question._ Wincing a bit, Brock scooted down the couch to lie flat, and pulled up the T-shirt. The bandage underneath was slightly brown. Simmons got the first aid kit from the sideboard where she had put it the night before, then crouched down next to the couch. To Brock’s slight disappointment, she put on gloves before starting to unwrap the bandage.

Simmons hissed. “That doesn’t look too good."

“What do you mean?"

“It must have gotten infected from the river water." Brock grunted as she carefully pressed on the area around the wound. “Yes, the tissue is hot and swollen, and there’s pus coming from the wound itself. I will try to treat it with some more disinfectant, and give you a shot of the strongest antibiotics we have, but... Let’s just say it would be good if we could get you to a real doctor soon." Simmons hat put on a brave smile, but the worry was still clear on her face. “I guess sleeping is a good idea."


	3. Meeting the locals

After she had finished treating him, Rumlow covered himself with a blanket and promptly fell asleep. He dozed most of the day. Jemma took over the watch from May some time in the afternoon, so she didn’t know if the two talked. When she came back inside to get some dinner, her soulmate was sitting on the couch with a fresh bottle of water in his still-cuffed hands. May was nowhere to be seen, and her bunk door was closed.

Rumlow cleared his throat. “Agent May asked me to tell you that she’s gone to sleep, so she can keep watch during the night."

Jemma frowned at his carefully neutral tone. “You don’t like her, do you?"

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly." Rumlow’s eyes flicked quickly to May’s door. “I did a few missions with her before she transferred to Administration, and I respect her skills as an agent. But everyone knows that she’s as loyal as they get, and she’s been on Hydra’s most-wanted list for quite some time. With the explicit warning that it would be better to kill her than to try and bring her in alive. So I don’t expect her to be happy about this... development." He gestured between himself and Jemma, then winced as the movement jarred his injury.

Jemma sighed. “I don’t think anybody’s happy about it."

Rumlow looked at her with an unidentifiable emotion on his face. “Including yourself?

“I– uhm–" Jemma blushed. _And that’s a very good question, isn’t it? Am I happy that I_ have _a soulmate? Yes! Am I happy that he’s very attractive? Yes! Am I happy that he’s a Hydra agent? Definitely not! But I have to make the best out of this situation, don’t I? And antagonizing my soulmate will not help me at all._

“It certainly would have been easier if you had been a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, or even a normal soldier. Having to wonder if my soulmate will betray me and my friends isn’t exactly what I wished for. But", she raised her voice slightly as Rumlow started to say something, “that doesn’t mean that I’m not willing to give this a chance. I have been thinking about what you told me; and while I have to condemn your choices, I can at least understand why you made them. And I have the hope that maybe, you will be able to understand why I work for S.H.I.E.L.D. and what I see in it, and eventually join our side."

Rumlow swallowed hard. “That’s a big maybe. And it doesn’t only depend on me. Your boss might not want me close to his organization after what I did."

“Director Coulson is known for giving people a second chance. If you honestly want to help, I can’t imagine him denying you the opportunity."

“I’ve followed S.H.I.E.L.D.’s fate in the media, I know that there are new rules. No more Fridge, no more secret prisons, the bad guys need to be brought to court now. So if you really want to give me a chance, you’ll have to vouch for me."

“I know. And I'm aware that it would be the perfect opportunity for you to weaken S.H.I.E.L.D. by taking me down with you if you’re actually still loyal to Hydra. But the Director is a cautious person, he would take appropriate measures to minimize that risk." Jemma wasn’t lying. After what had happened with Ward, Coulson had been insisting on all sorts of security measures when new personnel was hired. A good thing, too, because it had helped them expose two other Hydra moles – thankfully before they could do any damage.

“That sounds reasonable", Rumlow said carefully. “I already told you that I’m not loyal to Hydra anymore. And I _really_ don’t want to rot in Leavenworth or the Hole for the rest of my life. So I’m very willing to cooperate."

“Good. That– that’s good", Jemma smiled carefully. _This doesn’t mean I trust him. But it’s a start._

“Now how do you feel about dinner? I found some instant soup."

Rumlow didn’t look thrilled, but after his almost-starvation, Jemma wouldn’t give him anything hard to digest. She heated up an MRE for herself (chicken pesto pasta – actually not too bad) and both ate in silence. Afterwards, Jemma checked Rumlow’s wound once more.

“It hasn’t gotten better, has it?", Rumlow asked when Jemma had removed the bandage. “It’s throbbing."

“At least it hasn’t gotten worse. But I’ll give you another shot of antibiotics. It’s the last but one, so I hope the others can contact somebody soon."

Rumlow’s face tightened but he didn’t say anything. When Jemma was finished, she advised: “You should try to sleep some more. Give your body a chance to gather its strength and fight the infection."

“Yes, doc." The slight teasing in his voice was... nice, Jemma decided. But he really did look tired. _Better leave him alone._ Since it was starting to go dark and there was no electricity, Jemma couldn’t really do anything, not even read a book. So she sat down in the open emergency exit, leaned against the hull of the plane and gazed up at the stars. She could see parts of the Milky Way through the clearing created by the crashed Bus. Without any light pollution, the sky was spectacular. _Brock Rumlow, one of the most dangerous terrorists on Earth – my soulmate. I really didn’t see that coming. God, what would Mum and Dad say if they knew? I’ll have to tell them eventually, especially if we try a soulmate appeal and it comes through. That will be fun. They will be so worried..._

Jemma kept gazing up at the stars. She could understand why Jane Foster was so fascinated with wormholes. Jemma’s thoughts drifted before returning to the injured man on the couch. _So far, he’s been nothing but civil towards me. And that despite the fact that I almost killed him with my poison and then activated the bond without asking for his consent. And he_ is _my soulmate. Maybe this will all work out in the end. God, I hope it does. Then maybe I don’t just avoid more heartache, but could actually be happy._

Two hours later, May appeared at Jemma’s side. “Hey."

“Hey. Is he asleep?"

“Either that, or he’s a good actor."

Jemma looked up at the older woman thoughtfully. “What do you think of him?"

May shrugged. “I don’t trust him. He tried to kill Agent Romanoff and Captain Rogers. If he wasn’t your soulmate, I would have chained him in the Cage, wound or no wound. He’s a Hydra agent, and they are notoriously suicidal, so I won’t bet your life on his will to survive."

“I hope you’re wrong. But you’re often right, so... I will be careful."

“That’s good. Now go to bed, you need the rest."

It was the middle of the night when Jemma was woken by a noise. Still half-asleep, she opened her eyes – and stared confusedly at the three faces that greeted her. As far as she could see by the little light that spilled through the small window, the faces were covered in swirls and lines. _What made my subconscious come up with something this peculiar?_, she thought, still thinking this was a dream.

Then one of the men grabbed her arm and pulled her up, saying: “Maranga, maranga."

It worked better than a bucket full of ice water. Suddenly wide-awake, Jemma hastily scrambled for her shoes. The men were saying something in a harsh tone, but didn’t immediately stop her when they realized what she was doing. As soon as she righted herself, though, the man who had first talked to her grabbed her arm again and dragged her with him. In the living room, there were people everywhere, some of them carrying torches, others armed with what looked like spears and pale white... clubs?

“Look, I’m sorry if we’re trespassing, but we really didn’t mean to..."

“Nohopuku!"

Jemma didn’t understand a word of what the man was saying, but his tone was rather forbidding. She licked her lips nervously. If she had had an internet connection, she might have been able to translate, but of course she didn’t. And anyway, she doubted that the – warriors was probably the most accurate term – would have allowed her to use a computer right at that moment.

There was a shift in the people crowding the room, and suddenly Jemma could see Rumlow. _Oh._ Apparently, she hadn’t been as awake as she had thought, because until now she hadn’t even asked herself what had happened to her companions. The former STRIKE commander was surrounded by grim-looking warriors, his hands tied not only with Coulson’s handcuffs but also some sort of rope. Rumlow’s sharp gaze was skipping from left to right, seeming to judge the danger every single man in the room posed, assessing exit routes and possible weapons. He must have come to the same conclusion as Jemma, namely that they were hopelessly outnumbered, but his training probably told him to stay focused nevertheless. Finally, his eyes locked on Jemma’s, and he nodded slightly.

_Huh? What does he...? Oh, I get it: May! They haven’t gotten her yet._

Suddenly, the man who was still gripping her arm pulled her forwards, out of the plane. The rest of the people followed. When Jemma heard a commotion behind her, she turned her head and saw that Rumlow had apparently tripped while climbing out of the plane. He was on all fours on the broken wing, his captors yelling at him and pulling him back up. _If he’s that weak, this is going to be bad_, Jemma thought worriedly. Outside, there were even more warriors, some who had surrounded the plane and a smaller group standing further back. Jemma and her guard proceeded towards the smaller group. They stopped in front of a man who wore a fancy-looking coat covered completely in feathers, and an elegant club made from... greenstone? It was hard to tell in the moonlight. But it was probably safe to say that this was the men’s leader. A moment later, two warriors led Rumlow to stand beside her.

Jemma’s guard explained in an excited voice: “Ratau hoa wairua!" The leader looked mildly interested and waved them forwards. Then he grabbed Jemma’s left arm and carefully touched the soulmark. Jemma shivered. It was considered extremely rude for anyone but the soulmate to touch a person’s soulmark. Speaking of whom – Rumlow was tensing noticeably as the man touched her. Keeping his left hand on her, the leader put his right on Rumlow’s arm. There was something that felt like an electrical discharge. Both Jemma and Rumlow twitched involuntarily, but the warrior smiled triumphantly. He let go of the two and barked some orders at his men.

“You okay?", Rumlow asked gruffly.

“So far. Do you think that May..."

Rumlow shushed her vehemently. “You don’t know if they understand English." Before they could say anything else, their guards interrupted them sharply and started pulling them towards the forest.

“Excuse me? I don’t know what you’re planning, but my soulmate _really_ isn’t in any shape for long walks right now. Hello? Do you understand me?" Jemma sighed. The men around her were ignoring her completely. The group was walking single file through the undergrowth, their torches only illuminating small stretches of the path. Rumlow was maybe ten people in front of Jemma, so that there was no way for them to talk. At the moment, he seemed to have no trouble walking – the same couldn’t be said for Jemma. Until now, she had never had to walk through a forest at night, let alone a jungle. Without the firm hand on her arm, she would have fallen every few meters. As it was, she was quite sure that the men around her were making fun of her. She raised her chin and decided to ignore them. A more pressing question was what had happened to May. If the men had seen her, there would have been noise, probably a fight. So she must have hidden herself as soon as she noticed the warriors, and was now either following them, or had gone after the team. _They should be able to find us even without any electrical equipment, right? With so many people, we must be leaving quite a visible trail. I just hope that Fitz’s plan worked, and that the range of his radio is large enough to reach someone. Without any weapons, even Coulson and May would have trouble fighting so many people. Unless we manage to talk our way out, of course. For which some method of translation would be really helpful. Blast. These stupid EMPs!_

As the hours passed, it became obvious that Rumlow’s wounds were taking their toll on him. He was stumbling as much as Jemma, his guards were pulling him along roughly. Jemma couldn’t fault him – she felt just about ready to pass out. How long had they been walking? Her feet were killing her, she could feel blisters forming everywhere. A pity that she hadn’t had time to put on socks. But even with proper hiking gear, she would have been hard pressed to keep this pace for as long as they had. She should probably exercise more, but honestly, there was a reason she had chosen the _science_ track. Her stomach was rumbling. _I don’t want to know how Rumlow feels. At least I had a full dinner, he was only eating soup._

Finally, just as the sun started becoming visible on the horizon, the leader called for a halt. They were on a clearing next to a river, probably the same one the med pod had crashed into. As soon as his guards let go of him, Rumlow sat down heavily. Jemma could see that his jaw was clenched and his breathing shallow. This was not good.

“Excuse me, I think I should really..." Jemma started to move towards Rumlow, and strangely enough, her guard let go of her arm. Jemma didn’t question this, instead she crouched down next to her soulmate. “Hey. Everything okay?"

“Not really." Rumlow’s voice was slurred. “Wound’s getting worse."

Alarmed, Jemma grabbed his T-shirt and pulled it up. A faint sickly-sweet smell came from the bandage, which was covered in yellow and brown stains. “Oh dear. You don’t suppose our captors have antibiotics, do you?"

Rumlow barked a short laugh. “No, sweetheart, not really."

As they were talking, a small group of bystanders had gathered. After some discussion, an older, bald man was waved over to them. He was carrying a woven bag diagonally across his shoulder, and two younger men with similar bags followed him in a respectful distance. The old man crouched on the ground next to Jemma, and started pulling away the bandage.

“Hey!", Rumlow protested, and made a move to push the old man’s hands away. Immediately, a number of weapons was pointed threateningly at him, and angry voices gave commands that Jemma didn’t understand. Rumlow froze.

“I think he is their healer", Jemma said. “Whatever he can do is probably better than doing nothing."

Slowly, Rumlow moved his bound hands back, palms out. “Okay. Okay", he said placatingly.

The old man muttered something under his breath and grabbed for the bandage again. As he pulled it off, Rumlow hissed, and some fresh blood mixed with yellow pus welled out of the wound. The healer narrowed his eyes, leaned closer and smelled the wound. Then he gave a command to one of his helpers, who started rummaging in his bag. Finally, he got out a wad of folded dark green leaves, which he handed to the healer. The man had taken something that looked a bit like a large wooden spoon from his belt, and placed a few of the leaves in it. Then he procured a smooth black stone the size of a pigeon egg from somewhere on his body and started grinding the leaves. When they had turned into a paste, he gestured to the warriors surrounding them. Two of them grabbed Rumlow’s arms.

Rumlow started to say: “What–", only to gasp and tense as the healer applied the paste to the wound. “It burns", he explained for Jemma’s benefit, who looked on with worry in her eyes. Suddenly, the healer turned to her and said something.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand."

Rolling his eyes, the man grabbed her hand and placed it on the soulmark on Rumlow’s arm. _Oh. Of course._ Jemma closed her eyes and concentrated on the feeling of Rumlow’s skin underneath her fingertips. As on the plane, there was a tingling sensation first, and then a sudden burst of warmth. Jemma was dimly aware of a surprised “Oh!" from Rumlow as she held the connection until the healer said something harsh and pulled her arm away. She was hit by a bout of dizzyness and had to put her hands on the ground to keep her balance. The angry voice of the healer washed over her.

A few moments later, someone held a thin wooden bowl of water in front of her. Looking up, Jemma recognized one of the healers-in-training, as she had privately dubbed them. He waved the water at her encouragingly. With a nod of thanks, Jemma gripped the bowl and drank. The water tasted really good. When she was done and handed the bowl back to the young man, her eyes fell on Rumlow once again. The warriors behind him still held his arms, while the healer seemed about to wrap his wound with some kind of plant fibers. Jemma could steal only a very short glance at the wound before it was covered, but she could have sworn that the dark paste had completley sunk into the skin. _Don’t be daft. That’s impossible._

Then the healer was done, the men let got of Rumlow’s arms and the healer-in-training handed him the refilled bowl of water. Keeping a watchful eye on their captors, Rumlow drank the water. He already looked much better, if slightly dazed. _Amazing what you can do with a soulbond_, Jemma thought.

“So, uhm... Do you think it helped?", Jemma asked timidly.

Rumlow nodded. “Yes. Both the leaves and what you did, actually. It seemed like the soulbond somehow... activated the paste. I’ve never seen anything like that before."

Jemma was about to ask him what he meant when her eyes fell on his feet. She gasped. “Good grief! Your feet look horrible! Should we ask the..."

Rumlow waved away her concerns. “I’ll be fine. Hurting feet are the least of my problems right now. Besides, I don’t know if you noticed, but none of these people are wearing shoes. They probably wouldn’t even undestand what’s wrong."

Jemma made an unhappy noise but accepted his reasoning. He was probably right, anyway. They were worryingly dependent on the mercy of their captors. “What do you think they will do with us?"

Rumlow shrugged. “Take us back to their village, or whatever it is they live in. Then... hard to say. They might be persuaded that we don’t mean any harm and let us go, or they could just as well be cannibals and planning to eat us. I’m hoping that someone will come for us before they make any definite decisions."

Jemma had blanched. “Yes. That would be good."

Now that they were all in the same place and in full daylight, Jemma could finally count the number of warriors that had taken them prisoner. Including the three healers, there were fourty of them. Even if the rest of the team had been with them, they would have been hard pressed to avoid capture, at least without killing a lot of people. And Jemma was pretty sure that killing what seemed like an untouched indigenous people was not good.

  
* ∼ *

Brock kept an eye on the warriors as he rested. There were a few that obviously served as guards, the others stood around in small groups and chatted. They drank water from the stream and shared some dried fish, which they didn’t offer to their captives. Brock wasn’t sure that he would have been able to keep the food down, anyway. His body was still tingling all over from when Simmons had energized him. That had been a strange experience, not comparable to anything he had ever felt before. Brock was almost sorry that he had missed it when it had happened on the plane. However, while his wound had gotten _better_ from the treatment, it was still far from fine. Not to mention his feet, which had been cut up pretty badly by the rough terrain, and the general weakness that came from four days of barely any food. Brock really hoped that Coulson and his team had managed to contact someone, and that rescue would come soon. He didn’t like not knowing their timetable. If the natives were just going to hold them prisoner, they probably had two weeks, maximum, before his wound would kill him. But he was never that lucky. Surreptitiously, Brock looked over to his soulmate. She was handling the situation remarkably well. He had underestimated her because he had only ever heard about FitzSimmons as brilliant scientists. He should have known better, after all, she had spent almost three years on Coulson’s personal team now. The man was a magnet for unusual occurrences.

Brock’s musings were interrupted when the leader gave a command and the warriors packed away what was left of their food. “Come on", he murmured to Simmons and pushed himself up.

“Already?", she asked pitifully. He saw her wince as she got to her feet.

_Has she been wounded? When?_ Alarmed, Brock asked: “Are you hurt?"

Simmons huffed. “Compared to you, not at all. It’s just blisters."

Any further conversation was prevented by the approaching men who grabbed Brock and Simmons and made sure that four others walked between them as they started walking again. Brock didn’t like this at all. However, on the scale of all the times he had been taken prisoner, this still ranked pretty low. So far, neither of them had been hurt, they hadn’t been threatened (okay, maybe they had been, he honestly didn’t know), his wound had been more or less treated and they had been given water. It could be much worse.

Five hours later, Brock wasn’t so sure about that anymore. He was starting to weaken again, the energy Simmons had given him all but spent. If they didn’t arrive soon, he didn’t know how much use he was going to be if they had to fight. During the long hours of walking, Brock had tried to come up with a strategy. If he had been alone and uninjured, he would have tried (and probably succeeded) to make a break for it. Now, however, he had his soulmate to take into account. It had been a long time since Brock had had to care for anybody’s safety but his own. Designing a strategy around a non-field agent was almost like flexing long-unused muscles. It was beyond question that Brock had to keep Simmons alive, simply because he would die without her. So that wouldn’t earn him any brownie points with Coulson. It might, however, make a difference _how exactly_ he kept her alive. The way Brock saw both Coulson and Simmons, if he tried to shield her from as much physical and mental harm as possible, showed her some respect – was _nice_ to her, it would probably go a long way towards earning him a milder sentence. It wouldn’t even be much of an act: after having been at the bottom of the pecking order himself, Brock had always treated his coworkers with respect. Unless they proved to be total idiots, but there wasn’t much danger of that happening with Simmons. So far, she had been quite civil towards him, and it was easy to recognize her intelligence when she talked.

Brock directed his attention back to the situation at hand. Without a link to Coulson and without knowing if the Cavalry was close by, it didn’t make sense to try and escape. The natives knew the area much better than Brock did, it would be hard to avoid recapture. Especially with his wound, and Simmons’ equally weak state. Her body language told him that every step hurt her hellishly. Those must be quite some blisters. _Order only comes through pain_, the voice of Brock’s old drill sergeant said in his head. _What a load of bullshit. She’s a scientist, she can’t gain anything from pain._ He found himself wincing in sympathy every time he heard her hiss in agony. _She’s my soulmate, it’s okay to feel sorry for her. It’s only natural. But I gotta remember that she’s a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. She can take some blisters, they won’t kill her._

Not long after Brock had thought that, he caught his first glimpse of some man-made structures through the dense foliage. As they got closer, Brock could make out a palisade with the tops of wooden huts just visible over it. And behind the village, he wonderingly recognized a... pyramid? _No, not really. More like someone wanted a pyramid but didn’t have the skills to build one from scratch._ The village was situated at the foot of a rough rock face, which had several protrusions reaching into the jungle. Someone had used one of these lower, less steep rocks as a basis to build half a pyramid by shaping it vaguely rectangularly and cutting steps into it. At the top, there was what Brock thought was the entrance to a cave. Or maybe someone had just hung a curtain in front of the rock face, it was difficult to tell from this distance.

Then the group was greeted by men, women and children that spilled out of the opening in the palisade. They were staring curiously at Brock and Simmons with their fair skin and modern clothes. Brock couldn’t detect any hate, distrust or other negative feelings in their faces. Tentatively, he took this as a good sign. But the fact that his hands were still bound in front of his body, and that one of the warriors was still holding onto his arm, made him stay on his guard.

The whole group was escorted into the village, where the leader raised his voice to address his people. There were many cheers during his speech, and people kept looking over at Simmons and Brock. He really wished he understood the language, but it didn’t resemble any of the five he knew. Finally, the crowd dispersed. The warriors who had guarded Brock and Simmons during the journey now led them over to a solidly-built hut. They ushered them inside, where there was nothing but a low wooden table and two straw mats. Then the door was firmly closed and Simmons sank to one of the mats with a groan. In the dim light of the small opening in the roof, Brock looked over at his soulmate. She seemed slightly dazed. “Hey. Everything all right?"

“Hm?" Simmons blinked up at him.

Brock gritted his teeth and carefully lowered himself to the other mat. “You seem a bit out of it."

“Dehydration", Simmons answered a bit giddily. “And exhaustion. I’m really not used to so much exercise."

Despite himself, Brock chuckled, then groaned from the pain in his abdomen. “God, I really wish we’d met under better circumstances."

“Considering our occupations, that seems unlikely", Simmons answered with a wry smile. Then she nodded to his hands. “Would you like me to remove the rope for you? May has the key to the handcuffs, so I’m afraid I can’t do anything about them."

Brock grinned and produced a small silver key from his pocket. “Actually, you can."

“What? How...?"

“May must have seen the men, and known that we would get captured. So she left the key outside the plane, on the wing, where I would find it."

Brock could see in Simmon’s face that she remembered him “falling" when getting out of the plane, and things were clicking into place in that smart head of hers. She tentatively returned his smile, then reached out to take the key. “Good for us."

Once he was free, Brock rubbed his wrists, then had to stifle a yawn. “Maybe we should try to get some rest. The night was short, and we’ve been walking ten hours at least."

“Don’t we have to– I don’t know, keep watch or something?", Simmons asked.

Brock shrugged. “If we were more people, sure. But it’s not like we can do much to defend ourselves in here, is there?" He smiled slightly. "Plus, I have a very light sleep."

“All right, then. Would you like me to have a look at your wound?"

Brock considered it, then shook his head. “It hurts less than it did in the evening. So whatever that guy did, it helped, and we should probably keep the stuff on there. Don’t know what will happen if you remove the bandage."

“Okay. Sleep it is, then. But let me take off my shoes, first..." Simmons made a pained noise as she untied her laces and slowly pulled off the sneakers. Her feet were rubbed raw in places, blisters partly open and partly swelling to an enormous size. Brock had the sudden urge to take her feet in his hands and kiss them better. _You don’t even know her, you idiot! And you are in the enemy’s hand, for fuck’s sake. Focus!_

“That looks painful."

“It is", Simmons pressed out. She grimaced. “I really don’t want to put those shoes back on."

“Then don’t", Brock advised.

“Really? But won’t walking around barefoot only make things worse?"

“Nah. The soles of your feet are less sensitive then the sides. Also, the ground’s less rough here in the village then out in the forest."

“Hm." Simmons didn’t seem wholly convinced.

Brock only shrugged. His plan to shield her from as much harm as possible didn’t include patronizing her, that would only alienate an independent woman as her.

Simmons rubbed her eyes, then stretched out on her mat. Brock followed her example. Just before he would have fallen asleep, Simmons asked: “What do you think happened to May?"

“You’ve worked with her the past three years, you tell me", Brock slurred tiredly.

“She could have gone after Coulson, to tell him what happened and warn him that the island is inhabited. Or she could have followed us."

“Well, we haven’t heard any commotion yet, so if she did, nobody’s caught her."

“No. She’s really good at this stuff."

“So I’d heard. But do you think she will try to get us out?"

Simmons took her time to answer. Finally, she decided: “No, I think not. Not without an exit off the island. But if she’s here, she will stay close so she can sweep in at the right moment."

“That’s good then." Brock yawned. “Well, I’m gonna sleep now."

“Yeah. All right."

The two soulmates were exhausted enough that they didn’t rouse until evening when two women entered the hut. They used rather obvious gestures to communicate that the prisoners should come outside to relieve themselves. As soon as the couple had left the hut, two men approached Brock and pulled him in one direction, while the two women stayed with Simmons. Brock didn’t like that, but there wasn’t much he could do. Fortunately, both he and Simmons were brought back to the hut unharmed, where food and water were waiting. Simmons basically inhaled the food (a fish soup, some kind of grilled bird and fresh fruit – really not bad for a prison) and Brock ate as much as his stomach allowed him to. When they were done, they sat in companionable silence for a while.

Finally, Brock cleared his throat. “Well. This seems as good a time as any to get to know you, so. I’ve told you why I joined Hydra, will you tell me why you joined S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

Simmons answered readily, and it quickly turned into an animated conversation. _She’s smart_, Brock noticed with satisfaction. _Not just science-smart, but she has a quick wit that I really like. Yeah, I can see us getting along well._ Simmons seemed to have forgotten that he was technically still her team’s prisoner, and told him much more than she would have on the plane or in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. It would have been nice, had his body not been hurting so much. Finally, exhaustion caught up with them again, and they fell asleep once more.

The next morning, the two women came back, this time with something that tasted like mashed sweet potatoes and more fruit. Brock’s wound had gotten worse again. He didn’t have time to discuss this with Simmons, because two men in full battle gear entered the hut and beckoned the prisoners to follow them. Outside, three more men were waiting, and took them in their midst as soon as they started walking.

“Well, I guess we will find out what they want from us, now", Simmons said in an overly cheerful voice that did nothing to mask her nervousness.

Brock tried his best to project calm competence when he replied: “Just don’t panic, and we’ll be fine."

Simmons huffed, probably thinking of all the missions she’d been on that had gone pear-shaped, but didn’t object. Brock turned his attention back to their captors and where they were leading them. It looked like they might be headed for the strange pyramid. Brock’s guess was proven right when the first two men started ascending the rough stairs and the other three pointedly waved their clubs at the prisoners. Brock sighed. _Nothing good ever happens on pyramids. Ask any Hollywood movie._ Since he didn’t have any other choice, he started climbing. With his throbbing wound, it wasn’t much fun. When they reached the top, Brock quickly took in the scene. There was a platform of roughly four by four meters, backed by a steep cliff. Into the rock wall, a cave had been carved, which was partly closed by vines and partly by woven cloths. Two armed guards were waiting by the entrance and watched intently as the group approached. One of the men disappeared behind the curtain, then stuck his head out shortly after and waved them inside.

The cave was roughly the same size as the platform outside, and surprisingly cozy, with woven grass mats on the floor and walls, some wooden furniture and a fireplace with a small opening in the ceiling above it. Even more surprising, however, was the man who waited for them. He was tall, probably in his late fifties or early sixties, clothed in an impressive feathered cloak – and clearly of European or American descent, with blonde hair and sun-tanned skin. _What the fuck?_

“Ah, welcome", the man said with a strong Scandinavian accent. “My name is Jens Magnusson, and I am the ruler of this modest little island. Won’t you tell me who you are?"

Brock and Simmons shared a look. It was a bit late to agree on a convincing story, so Brock just hoped that Simmons would play along with his–

“My name is Jemma Simmons, and my partner is Brock Rumlow. Our plane crashed here the day before yesterday after we were hit by an EMP."

Brock had to suppress a groan. Wasn’t Simmons supposed to be a _spy_? All right, a scientist working for a spy-organization, but still.

“Yes, I thought that might be the case. But our island is not crossed by any of the usual flight corridors, and my men said they didn’t see any bodies at the crash site. How come you two were alone in a plane?"

“Simmons is a technician and I am a pilot", Brock answered quickly before Simmons could say anything. “We were asked to transfer the plane from Sumatra to its new owner in Missouri, and decided to take the shortest route."

“I see", Magnusson said slowly. He didn’t seem wholly convinced. However, his expression gradually changed from mistrustful to sly as he asked: “And you are soulmates, yes?"

Since his men had already seen and used Brock’s and Simmons’ soulmarks, there was no use in lying. “Yes, we are."

“Good, good. Show me."

Brock hesitated, and could see Simmons doing the same. Magnusson sighed and gave a command to his men, who grabbed the prisoners and pushed up their sleeves. Magnusson walked over to Brock. With an almost reverent expression, he reached out his long-fingered hand and let his fingers ghost over the feminine writing. Brock tensed, as did his guards. Magnusson sighed again, but this time in content. “A young bond, but already full of power. You cannot hear each other’s voice in your head yet, no? But energy, oh yes, you can pass energy very well. Fortræffelig."

“What do you want from us?" Brock tried to keep his voice polite, but failed to keep the strain out of it. “Will you help us get off this island?"

Magnusson laughed. “Get off this island? Dear Mister Rumlow, there is no way off this island. I myself shipwrecked here thirty years ago, and have been forced to stay ever since. Something in the volcano north of this village causes a pulse every seventeen minutes, destroying any technology you might want to use. No, the only way is to accept your fate."

“And what is our fate?", Brock asked tersely.

“Ah, yes. You see, when I arrived here, all my electrical equipment failed. But I still had some purely mechanical devices, and I am a studied man. I managed to convince the natives that I was sent by their gods, to herald a new era. They worship me as their high priest, and they expect a miracle every now and again. Fortunately, I have a... special ability." With a cold smile, he gripped Brock’s arm.

Brock gasped for air as he was suddenly hit by an immense cold. What was happening? He dimly heard Simmons’ voice, but it seemed strangely muffled, as if he was under water. Then the strange feeling disappeared all of a sudden, and Brock realised that he had collapsed, only partly held up by the two warriors at his side. He felt as weak as a newborn kitten. Brock managed to stutter: “Wh-what?"

“Normally, soulmates can pass energy between each other. But I can tap into that connection, and harvest energy from anyone with a soulbond", Magnusson explained triumphantly. “And then–" The man moved his arm in a small arc, leaving a trail of blinking lights behind. The five warriors made impressed noises. “As I said: a miracle."

“So you want to drain our energy to consolidate your unjustified rule over the indigenous people?", Simmons asked angrily. “What are we, batteries? And how long do you want to keep it going, anyway? You could do that trick maybe once a day, if we get enough food and sleep, but I doubt that it will keep impressing the people. Some day, they will get bored, and then–"

“You mistake me", Magnusson said with a smirk. “It will be one grand gesture. I will kill you, Miss Simmons, and drain all your energy at once. Then your soulmate will slowly die from bond withdrawal, allowing me to gradually harvest his remaining energy, which will help keep me young and fit for the next few years."

Brock felt his heartbeat pick up. This changed his timetable dramatically. _Fucking maniacs. Why can’t we ever run into nice people on our missions?_ He didn’t even notice that he had subconsciously included Simmons, Coulson and the others in the ‘we’ that would have previously only meant him and his old STRIKE team. _Okay, Rumlow, think. We gotta escape before he can harm Simmons. We have to..._

Unfortunately, simply getting to his feet proved too much for Brock’s drained body. The sound of Simmons’ enraged voice got distorted once more, and the world turned black.

  
* ∼ *

Jemma was shaking with fear. Rumlow was still unconscious, she had not seen any sign of May, and that ghastly Magnusson person wanted to kill her. After Rumlow had fainted, Magnusson’s men had led Jemma back to the hut, completely ignoring her protests and calmly but emphatically preventing all attempts to escape. In the hut, the two women who had brought her food before had been waiting with a grass skirt, of all things. When Jemma had refused to put it on, her guards had held her in place while the women had removed Jemma’s pants and underwear before wrapping her in the skirt. Jemma had been mortified. But that had only been the beginning. The women had removed Jemma’s blouse and bra as well, then used some kind of plant juice to paint black symbols on her chest and arms. Then they had _braided Jemma’s hair_ and decorated it with flowers, which just seemed completely out of place after the violence just before. When they had been done, they had left Jemma alone in the hut. Rumlow had not been brought to her.

It had been hard to measure the passage of time without a functioning watch, but the sun had been quite high when two guards dragged Jemma out of the hut later. The whole village had seemed to have gathered at the foot of the pyramid, which was also where she had seen Rumlow again. He had still been unconscious, lying on the ground with his hands tied behind his back, dressed only in the same type of loincloth as the warriors were wearing and painted similarly to Jemma. At least they hadn’t removed the bandage over his wound. Since then, Jemma had had to wait.

Now, she was still waiting, standing awkwardly and with crossed arms between two guards who stared unashamedly at her pearly white skin. “You know, it is terribly rude to stare", Jemma said to them, not really expecting an answer but having to do something to battle her nervousness. “Especially if it’s a naked lady you’re staring at. Mind you, it is also rude to kill a lady. Don’t you think you should reconsider your choice of high priest? Surely someone who requires human sacrifices cannot be the best candidate."

“Simmons?", a slurred voice asked. “What are you talking about?"

“Rumlow! Oh, thank God you’re awake. I think the– _ritual_ is about to start soon. The whole village is gathered, and it’s almost noon. Many civilizations have seen the sun as a divine power, thus making noon a favored time for ceremonies of all kinds. Maybe these people do the same. I think they are Polynesians, originally, but I have never really studied their culture and–"

“Breathe, Simmons", Rumlow said quietly. With a groan, he pulled himself to his knees. Jemma could see him freeze for a split second as he realized that she was topless. Then he fixed his eyes firmly on her face. “I will get us out of here, okay?"

“Okay", Jemma said in what she hoped was a brave voice. There were dozens of people gathered around them, many of them wearing weapons. And Rumlow seemed awfully unsteady as he finally got to his feet. _I hope May is here somewhere. Maybe she’s at the top of the cliff? If she brought a rope, she might be able to pull us up once we’re on the pyramid._ Unbidden, the thought _Ward might be able to get out of a situation like this_ came to her mind. Jemma firmly pushed it back down. Now was _not_ the time to think about traitorous former team members.

Suddenly, a loud banging sounded from the top of the pyramid. Several other drums joined the rhythm, creating a threatening atmosphere. Jemma’s arms were grabbed by her two guards, and the same happened to Rumlow. Then, they started ascending the stairs. Jemma could feel herself panicking. _Stay calm. This isn’t the first time your life is in danger. You’ve jumped out of a plane without a parachute, for goodness’ sake. Oh shoot, I didn’t want to think about Ward anymore. But Rumlow is competent, too, he was a Level 8 agent. And he managed to evade us for months, surely he can beat a group of technologically challenged warriors?_

During Jemma’s musings, the small group had reached the top of the pyramid. Magnusson was there, wrapped in his feathered cloak and with several jade necklaces hanging from his neck. He was flanked by three armed warriors on each side, one of them the chief who had led their march through the jungle, while one man kept beating a large drum at the edge of the platform. Jemma licked her lips nervously. The guards pushed her and Rumlow to their knees in the middle of the platform, keeping strong hands on their shoulders to prevent them from getting back up.

Magnusson gave a sign, and the drums fell silent, as did the crowd down in the village. Magnusson stepped to the edge of the pyramid, where he was visible for his audience, and started saying something in a loud voice. Every now and again, the crowd cheered. Finally, Magnusson pulled a wooden staff from beneath his coat and held it up in the air. It was hard to see from Jemma’s position, but she thought there was some metal embedded into the wood, and something sharp protruding from the bottom. An excited silence had fallen over the crowd.

Suddenly, there was a crackle as the latest EMP made something in the staff spark. Magnusson gave a sharp order, and Jemma was dragged to the edge of the platform by her guards. _Now would be a really good time for a rescue – May? Rumlow?_, Jemma thought nervously. With a start, she realized that the sharp bit at the bottom of the staff was a stone blade. Did Magnusson want to slit her throat with that? Stab her? Or even cut out her heart? Jemma really didn’t want to find out. Her blood was pounding in her ears, and she was completely frozen with fear. Time seemed to slow. Magnusson stepped right next to Jemma and lifted the knife with a theatrical gesture. Jemma’s analytical mind automatically calculated the probable path of the weapon. _The heart it is, then. Oh dear._ Jemma thought she was going to hyperventilate.

Then Rumlow suddenly surged forward and shoved Magnusson down the stairs. How he had escaped from his bonds, Jemma didn’t care. One of the two men holding her arms let go and pulled a club from his belt, while the other warriors on the platform also rushed forwards. It was a beauty to see Rumlow fight. He managed to duck underneath the first club that was aimed at him, then grabbed a spear and used it to propel its owner off the pyramid. Using the weapon, he deflected some others, dancing back and forth. The man still holding onto Jemma shook her and shouted something, but Rumlow didn’t react. ‘Surrender or we’ll kill your soulmate’ didn’t work very well when you had just proven that killing said soulmate had been your plan all along.

Jemma noted distractedly that Magnusson was limping down the last of the stairs and disappeared in the village. By now, Rumlow had already thinned the crowd considerably, but the men who were left were the best fighters, and more warriors were already running up the steps, weapons in hand. Jemma decided that she had to contribute something to the effort. She turned her head slightly – the man holding onto her arm was completely focused on the fight. In a move that Ward had once taught her (_Don’t think about that, not now!_), she jabbed her elbow back sharply, and hit him in his solar plexus. The warrior gasped for breath and doubled over, and Jemma managed to wrench her arm out of his grip. Then she pushed at him with all her might and tipped him off the platform. She didn’t wait to see if he had been able to catch himself, or if he had broken his neck.

Just as Jemma turned back around, her soulmate screamed with pain. The chief hollered in triumph and prepared to jab Rumlow again with his spear. Blood was running from the old wound in Rumlow’s abdomen – the warrior had managed to hit him in the worst possible place. Rumlow was stumbling, barely avoided the next attack. Jemma was almost numb with fear, she had to do something, _anything_... Her eyes fell on a club that someone had lost in the battle, and she grabbed it. With grim determination, she ran over to the small crowd that had surrounded Rumlow. They had completely forgotten about her, secure in the knowledge that their fellow warrior could easily contain one weak woman. Well, they were wrong. Spurred by fear and adrenaline, Jemma lifted the club as high as she could, and brought it down hard on the chief’s head. He dropped like a sack of potatoes. Jemma had enough time to strike at another man’s shoulder before the warriors realized what was happening. Rumlow was much faster, he used the distraction to grab the chief’s spear and impale one of the men on it. With a gurgle, he tumbled over the edge. By the time two of the warriors looked like they wanted to attack her, Rumlow had managed to turn the fight in his favour and pull their attention back towards him. In a stroke of brilliance, he thrust the other end of the spear towards Jemma, nodded towards the steps and yelled: “Now!" She understood immediately. Together, they held the spear at hip height and ran towards the steps. They managed to throw the three remaining attackers down, and barely caught themselves before tumbling after them. Rumlow used the spear, which Jemma was still holding onto as if her life depended on it, to pull her back towards the back of the platform. There, he let go of the weapon, and leaned against the wall.

“Fuck", he cursed, gasping for breath. “Chief got me real good. It’s worse than the plane crash, must have hit something important. I don’t know if–" He groaned and pressed a hand to his heavily bleeding wound. “Shit. I think I’m passing out. I–"

Jemma caught him as Rumlow’s legs gave out beneath him. “No, no, no. You can’t. There are more coming, I can’t do this alone. Rumlow!" He was panting, she could see that he was trying to fight unconsciousness, but losing. _Okay, okay, stay calm. Think. There’s got to be something... Oh, right, of course!_ It really should have been obvious, after all, it was the reason they were in this dilemma in the first place. Jemma placed her hand on Rumlow’s bare arm and closed her eyes. It got easier every time. The energy flowed freely, she could feel it passing through her fingers. Then it stopped abruptly. _What? Why has it..._ “Oh." Jemma realised that she had fallen to the ground, her hand slipping off Rumlow’s arm and thereby disrupting their connection.

“Simmons?", Rumlow asked worriedly. But before he could do anything else, the heads of the next wave of warriors appeared over the top of the stairs. Rumlow swore and shouted at her to stay back, before he pushed himself up and jumped back into the fray. Jemma watched him numbly. _God, he’s hot._ She blinked. Where had that thought come from? She let the noises of the fight wash over her and concentrated on keeping her eyes open. After a while, some of Jemma’s strength came back, and she slowly sat up. She still felt a bit dizzy, but couldn’t let that hinder her right now. Keeping one hand on the rock wall for balance, Jemma pushed herself to her feet. It seemed that the energy she had given to her soulmate had done what she had hoped, because the fight was definitely going in his favour. Not long after she had thought that, the last warrior collapsed with a groan. Rumlow turned around and came over to her. He was alarmingly pale and covered in sweat and blood. _Oh dear. It seems the energy was enough to help him fight, but not enough to heal his wound._

“We have to get out of here before they get over their shock", Rumlow gasped. “Mountain’s too steep, so we have to... The jungle..." He was swaying. There was too much blood on him. Jemma quickly inserted herself under his shoulder to keep him from falling, then had to put a hand on the rock wall to steady her own shaking legs.

“It’s okay. Just tell me what to do, and it’ll be okay." _No, it won’t_, the rational part of her said. _We are both going to die here._

Rumlow looked up at her, and the same knowledge was reflected in his eyes. “Jemma... ’m sorry. Should’ve taken better care of you." His voice was slurred. She was losing him.

Some of the warriors had gotten back to their feet and were starting to ascend the pyramid. They looked very, very angry. “It’s okay", Jemma repeated herself. “Thank you for trying." It had felt strangely nice to hear him use her first name, and Jemma decided to return the favour. He had earned it. “It was nice to meet you, Brock."

He smiled at her weakly. Two men with clubs in their hands had almost reached them. Jemma could feel Rumlow – Brock – try to stand up straighter, to at least meet death on his feet. She closed her eyes.

Suddenly, a loud noise filled the air, and Jemma’s eyes flew open again. There was a red and gold flash racing towards them. The two warriors hesitated. Then, something bright slammed into the stone between her and her attackers, and the warriors were pushed down the stairs by the blast. Jemma and Brock were thrown to the ground as well, but luckily stayed on the platform.

“Is that...?", Brock asked incredulously.

Jemma couldn’t help a relieved laugh that was at least partway a sob. “Iron Man. Yeah."

With a clank, Tony Stark landed next to the downed couple. “Anybody call for a cab?"

Jemma was too overwhelmed to speak. Brock tried to get up but fell back with a groan. Stark turned towards the villagers and set off a few more blasts from his repulsors, which caused them to scatter in a panic. Then he turned back to Jemma and Brock, giving each of them a hand and pulling them up. More seriously, he said: “I can carry one of you in the front, the other has to hold onto a handle on my back. I’ll give you an electric shock so you can’t let go."

“I’ll do it", Brock and Jemma said simultaneously. They looked at each other, and if the Iron Man suit had had eyebrows, Stark probably would have raised them at them now. Jemma lifted her chin defiantly. “You’re barely conscious and badly wounded. I will ride on his back."

The fact that Brock didn’t protest worried Jemma immensely. She pushed down the fear and stepped behind Stark, where two handholds unfolded as she watched. She grabbed them, and felt her muscles clench as the electricity was activated. On the other side of the large metal suit, Brock stepped (stumbled, really) into Stark’s one-armed embrace.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please put your seats in an upright position and switch off all electronic devices", Stark quipped as his repulsors activated and they lifted off the ground. Jemma felt the pull on her arms, but was still too shocked to mind. The air was rushing in her ears and making her eyes water, and the ground raced past underneath her feet. It was a strange experience, but infinitely less scary than jumping out of a plane without a parachute. Not long after, she could make out a Quinjet hovering over the ocean. As they approached, the rear ramp opened, and Stark expertly landed them inside.

The moment the electricity was gone, Jemma stumbled away from the metal suit and around to the other side. When Stark let go of him, Brock collapsed to the ground. “Brock? Brock!" Jemma sank to her knees beside him and put her hand on his naked shoulder.

“Jemma", he gazed up at her through half-lidded eyes. “Don’t worry. You’re safe now..." His eyes fluttered closed.

“Nonono. Brock!" Jemma desperately looked up to Stark. “You have to help him, please. He’s bleeding internally. I gave him all the energy I had, I can’t... I don’t..." She could feel tears welling in her eyes. “Please. Please help him."

“It’s okay." Stark had gotten out of his armour, looking perfectly groomed, as if he had just stepped off the cover of some society magazine. “We brought one of the newest-generation Cradles. Come on, Cap, put him in."

_Cap?_ Jemma followed Stark’s gaze, and her breath caught in her throat. Subconsciously, she had been aware that there were other people in the jet with them, but panic had given her tunnel vision. Now she realized that none other than Captain Steve Rogers was standing just a few steps away from her. His expression was forbidding, his disapproving gaze fixed on Brock. Then his eyes flicked over to her, and with a sigh he bent down and swooped Brock up in his arms. He carried him over to a construction that looked like a metal sarcophagus, equipped with some glass panes (presumably to let the patient feel less like they were lying in, well, a sarcophagus), a control panel and some metallic half-rings which were presently parked at the top end. As soon as Captain Rogers had placed Brock inside the machine, Stark started typing on the control panel and the half-rings whirred to life. Jemma looked over his shoulder anxiously.

“This is Doctor Cho’s design, isn’t it?"

Stark looked at her with new appreciation. “Yeah, it is. The Cradle can heal any injury that’s accessible from the outside, so unless there’s anything serious besides that hole in his stomach, he’ll be good as new in a few minutes."

Jemma sagged with relief. A throat was being cleared behind her. When she turned around, a track suit was thrust at her by the Captain. “Agent Simmons, would you like to..."

“Oh." Jemma blushed. She had completely forgotten that she was half-naked. As she put on the jacket and pants (and got rid of the grass skirt), her eyes returned to Brock. The cradle was moving back and forth over his abdomen, a myriad of LEDs and digital displays giving status reports that she didn’t understand. His eyes were still closed. “Um. I– Will there be– Where are–" _Why is the world turning? Who the hell is flying this Quinjet?_

Then there was a strong set of arms wrapped around her and she realized that she had been in the process of falling to the floor. “Why don’t you lie down for a moment, Ma’am?" That actually sounded like a good idea. Jemma let herself be led to one of the refoldable beds and stretched out on it. It feld _so good_ to get off her hurting feet. As she looked up at Captain Rogers’ earnest blue eyes, she roused enough to think about everyone’s safety. “Are you aware that there is an EMP every seventeen minutes?"

“Yes, we are. Which is why we’re hurrying to get out of its radius", Stark answered before the Captain could.

Jemma nodded, satisfied. Then she asked: “What happened to the rest of my team?"

“They are waiting on a cliff at the south end of the island", the Captain explained. “We will pick them up any second now."

As if to prove his words, the Quinjet started sinking. “Prepare to receive passengers", a male voice came over the intercomm. The Quinjet turned by 180 degrees while still sinking lower, a red light started flashing and then the ramp lowered. Outside, there was the rocky top of a cliffside before a backdrop of jungle. The Quinjet was hovering half over the rocky ground, half over the thirty-foot drop to the ocean. Coulson, May, Fitz and Skye were jogging over to them and quickly boarded the jet, which lifted off as soon as the ramp was closed.

“Jemma!", Skye exclaimed and bent down to envelop her in a hug that was no less enthusiastic for its awkward angle. “May told us that you’d been taken by some natives. They didn’t hurt you, did they?"

Behind Skye, Fitz was also hovering anxiously. Coulson looked relieved, while May was as inscrutible as always. Jemma tried to smile. “They wanted to sacrifice me. But B-Brock stopped them, and then Mr. Stark came and rescued us."

She could see the startled reactions as she called Rumlow by his first name. Almost as one, the team turned and looked at her unconscious soulmate. “He got hit on the stab wound pretty badly. There was internal bleeding. If we didn’t have Doctor Cho’s healing device, I don’t know if he would have made it." Jemma was surprised how shaky her voice had gotten on the last few words. Her eyes felt suspiciously moist. It must have been the exhaustion – or the fact that Brock’s death would mean her death, too.

“Well, it’s good that we brought it, then", Stark said. His voice sounded cheerful, but his expression betrayed that he felt deeply uncomfortable at the sight of the distraught young woman. He was trying to distract them all with his usual snark. “Agent, always a pleasure to see you."

Coulson visibly pulled up his polite agent-face as he turned from Jemma to Stark. “Mr. Stark. Captain Rogers. I am very grateful that you could come so quickly."

“And not a second too early, I might add", Stark said smugly. “It didn’t look good for your two lovebirds when I arrived."

Coulson’s mouth tightened. “They aren’t lovebirds. Agent Simmons had to forge the soulbond to save Rumlow’s life, which it seems he has repaid now." With that, his eyes flicked to Jemma, who nodded vigorously. Coulson sighed. “Still, had I known that the island was inhabited... But that’s a moot point now."

“So what do you plan to do with Rumlow? Do you want us to hold him for you? You know that the Avengers have a maximum-security prison for people like him", Captain Rogers asked.

Coulson turned to Jemma. “That depends on Agent Simmons. If she wants to vouch for him, I will support her."

Jemma finally pushed herself into a sitting position. She didn’t even have to think about it. “I do. I talked to him quite a bit, and while I agree that he has made some very, _very_ wrong decisions in the past, I do believe that he can make up for them if he works with us. At least better than if he sits in a cell for the rest of his life." Nerves made her a bit breathless during this speech. She was only too aware of the Captain’s unhappy eyes on her.

“Are you sure? He launched the Insight Helicarriers. He would have happily killed millions of people."

“I don’t think it would have been very happily", Jemma disagreed. “But I know what you mean. I’m not saying that we let him get off scot-free, I just want to give him a second chance."

“He would be heavily monitored, of course", Coulson interjected. “I have read Rumlow’s file, I know that he’s a good actor if he wants to be. But considering what has happened on this island, we can at least assume that he has an interest in Agent Simmons’ well-being."

“You’ll have to make sure that he doesn’t kidnap her", a female voice said from the door to the cockpit. When Jemma looked up, she saw that it belonged to the famous Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff.

Coulson nodded. “Yes, the thought had occurred to me."

“I wouldn’t", a hoarse voice explained from behind them. They turned their heads and saw that Brock was watching them from half-lidded eyes. “She’s too clever. Two weeks, tops, then she’d get away from me."

Jemma blushed. Coulson frowned. “While I am honoured by the faith you put in my agent, forgive me if I’m not taking your word for it."

“Fair enough", Brock murmured and closed his eyes with a yawn. His words sounded almost as if he was drunk. “Nifty machine you have there."

“It’s not usually meant for the likes of you", Captain Rogers grumbled.

Brock opened his eyes again. “Oh, hey Cap. Thought I’d seen you. How’s saving the world these days?"

The Captain stepped closer to the Cradle and towered over Brock threateningly. “I will always remember what you did, Rumlow. One wrong step, and you’ll disappear in the deepest hole we have."

“If you’re lucky", Agent Romanoff added. She had positioned herself on Brock’s other side. “You know, with the Cradle, there’s lots of things I could do to you without making your soulmate suffer. Your actions caused the death of many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, some of whom I even enjoyed spending time with. That’s rare enough that I take it very personally."

Jemma could see that Brock was trying to keep looking calm, but a quick swallow betrayed him. It seemed like she wasn’t the only one who had been thrown off her game by recent events. She felt the absurd urge to stand between him and the people threatening him. _They deserve to be angry_, she reminded herself. _Just imagine how I would react if it was_ Ward _on this plane, and someone saying that he deserved a second chance._

It turned out that she needn’t have worried. Having made her point, the Black Widow smiled nastily at Brock, then turned around and sashayed back to the cockpit. In the doorway, she turned around and asked: “Melinda, feel like a chat?"

May nodded amiably and followed her. Fitz looked after the two of them with a mixture of awe and terror on his face. “Imagine having those two against you."

Coulson shuddered. Then he sighed and addressed Captain Rogers once more. “Captain, maybe you would be willing to consult with us concerning the security measures we should take. Mr. Stark, I’m sure you have some ideas, as well." With that, the three men retreated to the front of the jet, which left Jemma alone with Fitz, Skye and her soulmate.

There were a few moments of awkward silence.

“So, um... sacrifice?", Fitz finally asked, picking up the grass skirt with raised eyebrows.

Jemma nodded gravely. “Yeah. The inhabitants of the island are led by a Skandinavian man who lets himself be worshipped as some kind of messenger from the gods. And apparently he can drain power from people with a soulbond, especially if he kills them. Which is why he wanted to..." She licked her lips and grimaced. “Cut out my heart, and then make Brock die from bond withdrawal."

“Uh", Skye winced sympathetically. “What a douche."

“Yeah. He had a fake pyramid and everything. Luckily, Brock managed to hold them off until Stark arrived."

“How was that? Flying with the famous Iron Man suit?", Skye asked excitedly.

That made Jemma smile. She sing-songed: “Fangirl, fangirl."

Skye flushed. “It was one. Time. Okay?"

But she didn’t have to suffer long, because Fitz chimed in: “No, really. Was it cool? It must have been so cool!"

“Well, I had to hold onto a handle on his back because Stark was carrying Brock, so it was a bit intimidating. And I was beside myself with adrenaline and exhaustion, so... not the best judge, maybe. But it was pretty neat, yes."

Jemma’s eyes passed between Skye and Fitz to the Cradle. Brock had turned his head and was watching her with a small smile on his face. When he caught her eyes, his smile widened, and he winked. Then he yawned again and closed his eyes. _Yeah. Good idea._ Addressing her friends, Jemma explained: “Guys, I had to give almost all the energy I had to Brock, so I’m really knackered right now. Would you mind if I...?"

“No no, you go to sleep. We’ll keep watch", Fitz assured her. Then he turned to the Iron Man armour that had been left standing against the wall next to the ramp. “And maybe pass our time enjoying the view." With a smile, Jemma drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon is that many centuries ago, when Polynesians undertook island-hopping voyages in the South Pacific, some of them got blown widely off course and arrived at this island. Because it's so out of the way, they never had any contact with other humans again - until Magnusson arrived. What the warriors say is based on Te Reo Maori, the language of the indigenous people of New Zealand. That's probably not exactly the language they would have spoken, but it's the one I could find an online translator for. Apologies if the grammar is wrong, please feel free to correct me :-).
> 
> maranga - get up  
nohopuku - silent  
ratau hoa wairua - they are soulmates (from ratau = they are, hoa = mate, wairua = soul)


	4. A trip down memory lane

Brock slept the rest of the journey. When he woke up, he felt surprisingly good. The pain in his abdomen had completely disappeared, together with the numerous scrapes he had sustained during the fight on the pyramid and even the cuts on his feet. The only discomforts that were left were hunger, exhaustion and bruises where blows of the warrior’s blunt clubs had hit him, but time and proper food wood fix that easily. Brock did, however, regret his earlier flippant words to Coulson and Rogers. They had probably pissed the two men off even further – not a good idea when they would be the ones deciding his future. In his defense, he had been out of his mind with pain and exhaustion and still reeling from the fact that he’d been saved by Iron Man, of all people. To see Rogers and Romanoff again, after hoping he wouldn’t have to meet them ever again, had just been the last straw. When the two had threatened him afterwards, Brock had wanted to call them out for their hypocrisy. _His_ actions had caused the deaths of many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents? If Rogers and his friends hadn’t interfered, Hydra would have quietly taken over S.H.I.E.L.D. while only having to eliminate a small number of die-hard Fury loyalists. (Okay, and a few million other people. But it would have brought stability and peace for the other seven billion humans on the planet.) Instead, Rogers’ little speech had caused an all out _war_ between the two agencies, not to mention the partial collapse of the Triskelion and the crashing of three huge Helicarriers in the middle of D.C. And the deaths of Brock’s team members, the best friends he’d ever had. But even in his loopy state, Brock had known that really getting into a fight with Rogers and Romanoff – even one that started purely verbal – was a stupid idea when you were defenseless and confined to a futuristic metal box. So he’d swallowed down the bitter accusations and contented himself with imagining horrible ways to kill the two.

Brock opened his eyes to find the Captain leaning over him. “We’ll leave you in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s custody – for now. Don’t mess it up."

“Wasn’t planning to", Brock assured him curtly. God, he hated being dependent on these people’s goodwill. Still, he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth – if they had decided to throw him straight into the Hole, his chances of ever getting back out would have been slim indeed.

Surreptitiously, Brock threw a glance at his soulmate, who was still asleep. The hacker (_Skye, her name is Skye. I should call them by their names if I’m gonna work with them._) had curled up next to her, almost tumbling off the narrow cot. Fitz had fallen asleep sitting on the floor, with his head resting against Skye’s legs. The scene spoke of familiarity and long friendship. With a pang, Brock remembered moments just like this, travelling back to base after hard missions. STRIKE’s elite team didn’t have much time off, so they’d basically lived in each other’s pockets for years, knowing their colleagues’ quirks and habits as well as their own: Miller always fell asleep as soon as the plane left the ground, while Ramirez and Gosh drove everyone mad with their constant bickering, and Jack was almost religious about cleaning his weapons as soon as possible. God, he missed them. _Stop being sentimental, Rumlow. They all knew the risk. And even if they were alive, they’d no longer be your friends. Hydra doesn’t like it when people try to get out._ But maybe, just maybe, Brock would be able to form a similar relationship with his soulmate and her team. It was by far the best possible outcome of the shitty situation he now found himself in. So Brock would do anything to make it come true.

Rogers was still watching him intently. Brock met his eyes squarely and refused to be cowed by his intimidating presence. Whatever Rogers saw in that gaze must have appeased him, at least for the moment, because he stepped back and allowed Brock to sit up. He handed him a track suit similar to the one Jemma was wearing. As Brock was getting dressed, there was a loud crackle in the speakers, then Barton’s voice announced: “ETA one minute, wakey-wakey." Rogers shook his head with a bemused expression, but the noise woke up Jemma and her friends. Brock thought that his soulmate looked adorable as she scrunched up her face, stretched, and unknowingly pushed Skye off the bed. The hacker landed on Fitz, and both of them squeaked rather undignifiedly. Jemma leaned over the edge of the cot and apologized, while Brock barely managed to hide a bitter smile. He knew the three were valued S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, had learned from Jemma how badly they’d been betrayed by someone they thought was their friend. And still, _still_ they seemed so damn _innocent_. Brock had lost that kind of innocence a long time ago. It was a mystery to him why Fate thought he and Jemma would make a good couple. But if this bond gave him a chance to trade a dark, lonely life for some of this carefree friendship – then it certainly wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened to him.

Brock’s musings were interrupted when the Quinjet decelerated and landed, while Coulson and Stark joined them at the ramp. At Coulson’s nod, Rogers got out a pair of the heavy manacles that Hydra had once used on him and his friends and said: “Your hands, Rumlow."

Brock sighed but knew it was pointless to argue. As he allowed himself to be handcuffed, he caught Jemma’s gaze. She smiled at him timidly, and Brock felt the corners of his mouth twitch in response. _All right, stop being all soppy. It’s time to convince S.H.I.E.L.D. that I’ll be an asset to them_, Brock chided himself, straightened and pulled his shoulders back. As the ramp lowered, he was greeted by a squad of armored agents with guns pointed at him. Brock raised an eyebrow at Coulson and couldn’t keep himself from asking: “Really?"

“Until a court has decided your case, we will treat you like the high-risk enemy combatant that you are", Coulson replied pleasantly. “And now move."

Rolling his eyes, Brock complied. Rogers was walking next to him, followed by Coulson’s team. Stark had already swaggered out before them. (_Right between myself and the guns – sloppy, sloppy, Stark._) Somewhere behind him, Brock could hear Barton and Romanoff banter. Except for Banner and Thor, all of the Avengers were here. Brock was glad that he wasn’t planning to fight his way out of this place – it would have been a lost cause from the beginning. Brock looked around. The hangar seemed completely unfamiliar. Before the fall of the old S.H.I.E.L.D., he had been Level 8, and he had been pretty sure that he knew all the bases. As the group stopped in front of the guards, Brock turned to Coulson. “Did you open a new base?"

The Director just smiled at him, then he addressed the guards. “You know where to bring him. Watch him carefully."

Brock pushed down the tiny tendril of alarm that appeared when he realized that he was going to be separated from his soulmate. _Don’t be ridiculous. They can’t keep her away from me forever, for her own sake._ He nodded respectfully in Jemma’s direction, which she repaid with an answering smile. Then one of the guards approached him with a black bag, and the world turned dark. A strong hand on his arm steered him through a number of turns, then pushed him down with a curt “Sit!". Brock had had his fair share of bad experiences with medical personnel, so it was excusable that his heartbeat picked up slightly as a gloved hand pushed up his sleeve. He must have twitched, because there were suddenly more hands on him that pressed his arms to the arms of the chair, and then restraints clicked shut. It didn’t help that he still couldn’t see. _Breathe, Rumlow. Don’t show any weakness._ By the time someone took his pulse and blood pressure, Brock had brought his body back under control, so the values would hopefully be within normal parameters. Then there was a small prick in his arm. Instead of the rush of heat, cold or pain that Brock had come to associate with needles, there was only a lingering feeling of intrusion – they were taking his blood. Either quite a lot of it, or it simply wasn’t flowing well after how much he’d lost on that island, because it seemed to take forever. Finally, the needle was removed, and so were the restraints. Someone pulled Brock up, and he had to fight a wave of dizziness. He was really lacking blood right now. Then Brock was grabbed by his arms from both sides, and led through the base for what seemed like an eternity. Their path included enough turns that even he couldn’t remember them all, and there were stairs involved as well, different step heights, both up and down, until he had no clue where he was. Finally, the sound of their footsteps turned more echoing, as if they were in a bare concrete hallway. A door opened, then one of the guards let go of him and the other said: “Careful, steps down." When they had arrived at the bottom, Brock was led a bit further before they stopped and the black bag disappeared. Brock blinked into the sudden light.

He was in a completely grey room with a bare concrete floor, strangely grey tiled walls on three sides and a set of rather high concrete stairs on the fourth, a bed and a table, both foldable and bolted to the wall, a tiny toilet and sink in one corner, and a chair that was positioned next to a thin pillar holding a tablet in the middle of the room. On the side with the stairs, the guards had taken up position, weapons at the ready. The one who had just removed the hood inserted a complicated mechano-electric key in the manacles, which opened with a clanking sound. The guard stepped back immediately. “There are clothes on the bed and food’s on the table. Someone will come to talk to you in the morning." With that, he took another step back, then another, another – one of the other guards pressed something on the tablet and suddenly a grey wall appeared in the middle of the room, shutting Brock off from everyone else.

“Huh. That’s new", Brock remarked. There was no response. Sighing, Brock turned around and inspected the clothes on his bed. Standard S.H.I.E.L.D. issue, similar to what he had been wearing on the Bus. They had included shoes, socks and underwear, a towel, toothbrush and toothpaste, too. He turned to inspect the rest of the room. There was a shower head on the wall next to the sink. Brock silently thanked every deity that was listening, stripped off the track suit and started washing off the black markings on his skin, as well as the dirt of the past... he ran the calculations in his head. _Six days. Man, I must smell awful. And no wonder I’m so hungry, I haven’t been eating normally for almost as long._ As he was standing under the spray, Brock wonderingly touched the place where the deep wound had been. The Cradle was a really amazing invention. Not that he was gonna complain, mind you. Then he put on the fresh clothes and ate the food that waited for him. Chicken broth in a styrofoam cup, and more jelly. Someone must have told the staff about his malnourishment. Brock wasn’t sure if he was thankful, or angry that he still couldn’t eat any real food. But he was glad to have access to a tap now, rehydrating was important. Damn blood loss.

When he was done, Brock stretched out on the bed and sighed contently as he pulled the blanket up to his chin. You had to appreciate the small things, sometimes. Like a bed in a place where no one was likely to shoot, stab or hit you in the near future, and which wasn’t about to fall out of the sky. Brock sighed once more. The guard had said that someone would talk to him ‘in the morning’. His sense of time was completely shot to hell, and the hangar doors had been closed when they got out of the Quinjet. _Doesn’t matter. Worst case, they’ll wake me up. So what?_ That decided, he closed his eyes, and was almost instantly asleep.

  
* ∼ *

Jemma felt a bit strange when the guards put a hood over Brock’s head and led him away. It reminded her of when Ward had been transferred to his brother’s custody. _Don’t be silly, the situations have nothing in common. Brock’s only going down to the Vault. He will be fine._

“Agent Simmons?"

“Hm?" Jemma distractedly turned around to find her boss, most of the team and an assortment of Avengers looking at her. She blushed. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that, please?"

“I asked if you felt up to a debrief", Coulson said slightly amused.

_Not really. All I want to do is sleep._ But Jemma knew that it had to be done sooner or later, and in her experience, sooner was usually better than later. So she forced herself to smile and said: “Of course, Sir."

Coulson nodded and led the whole group to his office. It was a tight fit, but Agent Barton hopped up on the sideboard and Agent Romanoff remained standing by the door, so they made it work. Jemma sat in a chair directly in front of the Director’s desk, which always made her feel as if she was a student who had been called to the principle’s office. At least he gave her a pair of soft slippers for her bare feet, and offered her a cup of tea, which did wonders for her nerves.

“All right, Agent Simmons. Agent May has already told us about what happened during the day while you stayed in the plane, and that she agreed to take the night shift. So please start with the events of that night."

Jemma nodded. “I went to sleep shortly after Agent May had left, but was woken up around midnight. There were three men in my bunk..."

She told them everything. There were some questions when she described how the healer had treated Rumlow’s wound, apparently no one had ever heard of medicine that could be activated by the energy of a soul bond. Stark was especially fascinated and muttered: “If Brucie were here, he’d have a massive geek-out."

Jemma ignored him and continued her story. As she got to the point where she and Rumlow had been stuck in the hut and were simply talking, Agent Romanoff asked: “And what did you think about him?"

Jemma flinched a bit. The Black Widow had been completely quiet until now, so that Jemma had completely forgotten she was standing behind her. _Way to go Jemma, I’m sure they will be impressed by your spy-skills._ Then she actually thought about what the older woman had asked. “At that point, I wasn’t really thinking of him as a Hydra agent anymore", Jemma confessed. “He had nothing to gain by harming me, on the contrary. And he was behaving..." She waved her hand through the air as she was searching for the right word. “_Decently_, I guess. I mean– he could have laughed at me when I complained about my blisters, him being hurt much worse and all, but instead he gave me advice. He talked to me like a normal person, not like those Hydra fanatics, and not half as creepy as Ward or Garrett."

Agent Romanoff nodded thoughtfully and didn’t ask anything else. So Jemma recounted her meeting with Magnusson, his explanation of the EMPs and that he was using his gift to fuel the religious beliefs of the indigenous people. She could see that Skye was burning with anger, her Rising Tide convictions coming through once more. When Jemma reached the ritual on the pyramid, she was clasping her teacup with both hands. Now, with a few hours distance, she was painfully aware how lucky they had been to escape with their lives, and nerves were starting to set in.

“But then Brock somehow got loose and pushed Magnusson off the steps. There was a big fight, I managed to get away from the man who held me, and then the chief hit Brock with a spear right on the stab wound from the plane crash. I could see that it was bad, and that he was going to lose the fight, so..." She had to clear her throat. She looked down at her tea. “So I picked up a club and hit the chief over the head with it. I’m pretty sure I killed him."

“Good on you", Fitz said vehemently.

Jemma looked up, surprised, but had to smile at the grimly satisfied faces of her two friends. Even May looked approving.

“Erm, yes. After that, we managed to push the rest of the warriors off the pyramid, but we knew that they would be coming back. And Brock was about to faint." Feeling the gazes of the Avengers on her neck, Jemma had the strange urge to defend her soulmate’s honour, lest they think he was weak. “After all, we had poisoned him, so he hadn’t really eaten in days, and he’d had a festering wound for two days and was bleeding internally now, so..." She tapered off, unsure of where she was even going with this. _Get a grip, Jemma!_ Shaking her head, she continued. “Anyway. I knew there was no way _I_ could fight those men, so I used the soulmark again. I might have overdone it a bit, because now it was me who almost fainted. But it worked, Brock kept going long enough to hold back the second wave of attackers. And then, when we were both _really_ at the end of our ropes, Mr. Stark arrived and got us out."

“Thank you, Agent Simmons", Coulson said after a moment of silence. Then he addressed the Avengers: “What do you think?"

“First off, those people cannot be left under the rule of a man like Magnusson", Captain Rogers started seriously.

Coulson nodded. “No, of course not. But we will hand that case over to the UN, it’s their jurisdiction and they are better equipped to handle it then we are, anyway. I was asking more about Rumlow."

The Captain’s mouth tightened. “I may not be the most impartial judge on this, considering our history. But there’s a strong chance that he’s playing you, Coulson, because I know that he’s a good actor. And he’s damn dangerous in a fight."

“Which makes him a valuable asset, if he’s really on our side", Coulson countered provocatively.

“You know what he did. Would you really be willing to give him a second chance?"

“It’s what I’m famous for", Coulson answered with his patent pleasant smile.

Captain Rogers sighed heavily. “So I’ve heard. Natasha, what do you think?"

“I don’t have enough intel yet. I worked with Rumlow for a while, read his S.H.I.E.L.D. file even before I started doing so, and I know that he’s very competent. Fury doesn't promote just anyone to Commander of STRIKE Team Alpha. Rumlow's a good tactician, excellent at risk-assessment. So he could’ve come to the conclusion that cooperating with S.H.I.E.L.D. – and maybe one day being allowed to be a high-level agent again – is his best option. Or he might still be loyal to Hydra and willing to eventually sacrifice his own life to bring down S.H.I.E.L.D. I’d need more time to find out which."

Coulson replied dryly: “Time is something we have on our hands, now. I just don’t know how much of your time you’d be willing to invest."

Agent Romanoff shrugged noncommittally.

“Mr. Stark, do you have an opinion?"

Stark huffed at the wording and looked up from where he had been tapping away on a tablet. “I don’t know the guy. But what I saw – and read", he waved the tablet, “about your Agent Simmons makes me think she’s a clever one. So if she says ‘go for it’, I’d go for it."

Jemma blushed, but Coulson nodded seriously. “Yes, my thoughts exactly. All right. Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff, your concerns have been duly noted, but I am still convinced that we should give him a chance. We will, of course, take appropriate security measures."

Captain Rogers still looked unhappy but nodded with a sigh. “I respect your decision, Director, and will not stand in your way."

“Thank you. Then I close this meeting, I think we would all like to get cleaned up now and rest. Agent Simmons, in light of the recent developments, I give you tomorrow off. But please let Medical check you over tonight before you retire."

Jemma was glad to get out of the room and away from all the too-observant glances. Skye hurried after her and offered to accompany her to Medical, which Jemma happily accepted. Her friend chatted away, telling her about what had happened at their end. Apparently, they had stumbled across a colony of what might be a previously unknown species of macaques, and Fitz had been over the moon with joy. It didn’t hurt that his EMP-detection device had worked exactly as intended, and that they had managed to assemble a radio and contact S.H.I.E.L.D. once they had been south of the small mountain range.

Medical didn’t find anything too bad, they treated Jemma’s feet and gave her a suspiciously coloured salve (probably experimental) and fresh bandages so she wouldn’t have to check in every day. Finally, Jemma came out to find Skye waiting for her in one of the visitor chairs. “So. Wanna sleep, or talk?"

Jemma had to stifle a yawn. “Let’s have a girls’ night tomorrow. Today, I need to sleep."

Skye smiled sympathetically. “Yeah, you do look exhausted. I’ll walk you back, then."

They said goodnight at the door to Jemma’s quarters. When she shut the door behind her, Jemma was hit by a strange thought. _It looks the same._ She walked over to the small bathroom, turned on the light and started stripping. As she plucked the now-wilted flowers from her hair and undid the braids, she thought: _It looks just as I left it, as if nothing had changed._ Jemma stepped into the shower and turned on the hot water, blessing S.H.I.E.L.D. for using high-quality technology even in the staff quarters. _But that’s not true, is it?_ Everything _has changed. I have a soulmate now._

She stood under the hot spray for a long time, letting it soak away the black paint and loosening her sore muscles. (It was a good thing the nurses had put water-resistant adhesive bandages over her blisters, or they would have burned like hell.) Jemma let her thoughts drift to her soulmate. He really was terribly good-looking. And he seemed to respect her, which hadn’t been the case with all the specialists she had met during her career. Usually, they saw a petite woman in a lab coat and thought that she must be helpless. Idiots.

Jemma sighed. _But I mustn’t let my judgement be clouded by the fact that he's my soulmate. Sometimes it’s not obvious why two souls are deemed compatible. It could be that... our souls have the potential for great things, either good or bad, and that I’m on the bright end of the scale, while Brock’s at the dark end. I read his file, after all._ Jemma shut off the water. _Let’s hope that’s not the case._

  
* ∼ *

Brock actually woke up by himself before anyone came to visit him. So he washed, then did some careful stretches. They had the double purpose of passing the time and allowing him to assess the state of his body. There were no residual pains in his abdomen, everything worked exactly as it should, and the bruises would fade with time. It was only when he started doing some slow push-ups that Brock noticed how quickly he got out of breath. Well, that had to be expected after so many days without proper nourishment.

As if on cue, there was a ding and the barrier disappeared. There were three armed guards positioned at the foot of the stairs, and a fourth agent stood next to the chair, on which he had placed a tray with food. Brock started to get up, only to be stopped by the agent. “Please sit down on the bed and stay there."

Raising an eyebrow, Brock did as he was told. Satisfied, the agent did something on the tablet, then picked up the tray and came just a few steps towards Brock before placing the tray on the ground and retreating again. Brock noticed appreciatively that the agent made sure not to get in the line of fire, and that the other guards kept him in the sights of their guns the whole time. Finally, the agent tipped something on the tablet again and the barrier appeared once more. Brock only shook his head at the flashy technology and went to pick up the tray. Cereals with milk, two pieces of toast with jam and a plastic cup of something that smelled like herbal tea. _It’s a step in the right direction_, he allowed and sat down to eat. When he was done, he decided not to be an ass and brought the tray over to the barrier. In ninety percent of the cases, it paid off to be nice to one’s jailors. That done, he sat back on the bed and waited.

Maybe half an hour later, the barrier disappeared without a warning. Director Coulson was standing on the other side, the control tablet in hand, smiling. “Good morning. How do you feel?"

“Much better, thank you", Brock answered cautiously.

“Good. Then let’s talk about your future."

“I’m all ears", Brock assured him dryly.

“As Commander of STRIKE Team Alpha, you were a Level 8 agent. So I assume you know the S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook."

“Of course."

“Then you also know that we need a full confession for the soulmate appeal."

Things suddenly made sense. “When you say _full_ confession..."

“I mean starting from the moment you joined Hydra, until you arrived at this base."

Brock took a deep breath. “Telling all that’s going to take a lot of time."

“Do you have anything better to do?" That was a rhetorical question, of course. “And don’t worry about taking up my valuable time, I will not be conducting the interview myself." Coulson pressed the comm device behind his ear and said: “You can come in now."

A very pretty, rather serious-looking blonde woman descended the stairs. “This is Agent Morse, our interrogation specialist. Let me give you some advice: Don’t try to lie to her, she’ll notice. And that will lower your chances at getting out of here immensely."

_They won’t be relying on one woman’s gut feeling_, Brock knew. _They will try to check everything I say against whatever intel they can find. Well. I decided to commit to this, didn’t I?_

Brock sat down on his bed, leaned against the wall and plastered a fake smile on his face. “All right then, Agent Morse, better get comfortable. You’re gonna be here a while."

  
* ∼ *

Jemma slept till ten. She felt guilty, but only slightly, because she had been given the day off, after all. As she was brushing her teeth, she thought about what to do with her free time. Jemma wasn’t the type to sit around idly, but she doubted that she would be able to concentrate on any of her science projects today. So instead, she went to find her friends.

Skye was in her office. It was a small room with a single desk, a comfortable swivel chair and a simpler chair for visitors. Three large screens stood on top of the desk, and a number of computers and servers were humming away soothingly. Skye smiled as she saw Jemma in the doorway and took out her headphones.

“Morning, Jemma. I gotta say, it seems like your man is keeping his word."

“What do you mean?"

“He’s been spilling his guts to Bobby since eight this morning. Coulson asked me to do some fact-checking."

Jemma sat down on the chair. This might be interesting. “And?"

Skye shrugged. “He told Bobby that he was a troublemaker at school, and man, that’s an understatement. His record’s got even more entries than mine."

Jemma shrugged. “He mentioned that to me, too. Did he say anything about his family?"

“Yeah." Skye pulled up a driver’s licence with the picture of a dark-haired woman with hollow cheeks and bags under her eyes. “Meet Barbara Rumlow, Walmart-employee until she got sacked for being drunk on the job. Lost her licence after she was caught drunk driving one too many times, two trips to the hospital when people found her passed out in the park, died of liver failure fifteen years ago." Jemma grimaced. Skye continued: “Rumlow’s birth certificate lists his father as ‘unknown’, so... nothing to find, there."

Jemma decided not to comment on that. Skye had more or less accepted that neither S.H.I.E.L.D. nor anyone else had any clues about who her own parents might be, but it was still a sore subject.

“I found his military records, too – both the official ones and the originals. Seems like he did really well, but took a few more risks than his superiors were comfortable with." She grimaced. “Not that I can blame them."

“And have they gotten to when Hydra recruited him, yet?"

Skye nodded. “The names of the guy that recommended him and the one that hired him for S.H.I.E.L.D. match what I found in our databases."

Jemma noticed a small video feed in the corner of one of the screens. She moved her head closer. “Is that...?"

“The live-feed from the Vault, yeah." Skye waved her headphones around. “I was listening to it so I could look the stuff up immediately. I think Coulson wants to prepare the dossier for the court as quickly as possible."

“We don’t win anything by letting him wait in a cell, so... it makes sense, I suppose." Jemma licked her lips. “Would you mind if I listen, too?"

Skye shrugged. “If anyone deserves to know this, it’s you. Be my guest." She turned the video to fullscreen, pulled her headphones out of their socket, and suddenly Brock’s voice came from a small pair of speakers installed on the wall.

“That was the first mission I had with Jack Rollins. He proved himself to be very capable, and he didn’t bat an eye when I shot the rapist despite what our orders were. So I recommended him to my Hydra handler, and a month later he approached me and thanked me for opening that door for him."

“Didn’t S.H.I.E.L.D. reprimand you for going against orders?", Bobbi asked.

Brock shook his head. “No. I said I thought he was going to pull a weapon, my S.O. asked me to try a nonlethal shot next time, and that was it."

The conversation continued for more than two hours. Gradually, the stories started getting worse. Skye kept working on two of her screens, digging through old S.H.I.E.L.D. casefiles, news reports and some other, less legal sources, while Jemma watched the video feed on the third screen. She thought that Brock looked a bit worn out, and his voice was getting even rougher. During the time Jemma had watched, he had walked over to the small sink twice to fill a styrofoam cup with water. Otherwise, talking for so long would have been impossible. Still, Jemma wanted to ask Bobby to take a break. Surely waiting half an hour for years-old intel wouldn’t make a big difference? But it wasn’t her decision to make.

It seemed that Brock had less scruples than her. After finishing a story about a raid in Venezuela, Brock cleared his throat and took a sip of water. Then he said: “You know, if you want me to still be able to talk tomorrow, we gotta take a break soon."

Bobby cocked her head at him. “Am I being too hard on you, Rumlow?"

Brock didn’t rise to the bait. “My job’s always been shooting people, not talking to them for hours. I can continue a bit if you’re so eager to hear the next story, but then my voice will be gone before evening. Your call."

Bobby kept the smug smile on her face, but she knew when she was beaten. She got out her phone, pressed a few buttons and held it to her ear. “You can bring down some lunch now. And include some chamomile tea or whatever’s good against a sore throat."

Surprised, Jemma looked down at her watch. It was almost two. _Huh. Maybe we should get something to eat, too._ Suddenly, there was movement on the screen. Four guards in full battle gear came down the stairs and took up position at the foot of the stairs. “What...?", Jemma started, only to see that Brock was still sitting calmly on the bed.

Skye raised an eyebrow. “Wow. They sure as hell take no chances with him. Must be quite a man you got yourself there."

As they watched, the transparent barrier shimmered and disappeared, allowing one of the guards to place a full tray on the floor and take back the empty one right next to the barrier that Brock must have left there. When the barrier was in place again, Bobby said: “One hour, then I’ll be back."

Brock just nodded and watched as the group left. Then he got up and stretched with a groan, before walking over to the tray and taking it back to the bed. Jemma’s stomach grumbled. Skye laughed at her and suggested: “Maybe we should grab a bite to eat, too."

  
* ∼ *

Brock hungrily devoured the food (sandwiches and a yoghurt – finally back to normal, then) and carefully sipped the hot, sweet tea. They had given him two cups of it. Someone in the cafeteria had to not completely hate his guts, then. Or just be really, really interested in what he had to say.

So far, Brock couldn’t complain about the interrogation – he was warm, well fed, sitting on a more or less comfortable bed, and nobody had threatened him with bodily harm. Much better than the other times people had wanted intel from him. And yet, he was telling Agent Morse more than he had ever told anyone. _Agent Morse._ He'd heard that name before, when he was still working for S.H.I.E.L.D. Rumour had it that she'd lost a good friend in the mess left by the Hydra uprising, so he would forgive her the slight bitchiness. Which didn’t mean that he would let his guard down. Just because Coulson wanted him alive didn’t mean all of his employees shared that goal.

_I wonder what’s Jemma’s opinion, now that she’s had time to think everything over. I hope she didn’t change her mind about the soulmate appeal._ He tried not to see it as a bad sign that Jemma hadn’t come by to visit him yet. For all he knew, Coulson had forbidden her access to protect her in case Brock turned out to be a lying bastard after all.

Before he could unsettle himself even more, Agent Morse came back and resumed the interview. They were starting to get to the nastier stories, and Brock had to remind himself again and again that leaving stuff out now to make himself look less bad was only going to bite him in the ass later. After a while, something horrible occurred to Brock: If he felt ashamed about revealing certain things to S.H.I.E.L.D. – did that mean he was doubting his orders now? And if he was doubting his orders, was that the same as doubting the Cause? Throughout everything, Agent Morse’s face was impassive, but Brock was pretty sure she was appalled by what he told her. Well, it couldn’t be helped. He tried to keep things brief and recount only the really important facts, which made it easier for both of them. When Brock mentioned going to a dedicated Hydra base for the first time, Morse started asking for more details. It turned into a pattern: whenever Brock mentioned a new base or person, she wanted to know everything he could tell her about it. As a result, they got through chronological events a lot slower than at the beginning.

Finally, Morse switched off her tablet and said: “That’s enough for today. I’ll be back tomorrow."

Brock only nodded and watched her go. His throat felt as if someone had scraped it with sandpaper. He just had to wait a short time before the usual mealtime routine was played once more. Brock emptied his plate, then stepped under the shower. He felt strangely grimy, even though he’d barely had any physical activity that day. Recounting his past had been uncomfortable at best, especially while feeling someone’s disapproving gaze on him. _Fuck, I sure as hell didn’t expect I’d ever have to relive those moments again._ If you’d asked him a week ago about his decision to join Hydra and about the work he’d done for them, Brock would have sworn it had been the right thing to do. Now that he was forced to reexamine every little thing, every single order he’d fulfilled, Brock’s carefully constructed narrative began to crumble. He’d always been sure that he was working towards a fairer world based on merit rather than birth (it was, after all, what Kowalski had promised him all those years ago). But now that he’d been forcibly removed from his team, without the threat of disapproving superiors or the whispered ghost of weak-link protocol hanging over him – now he was starting to _think_. Thinking was dangerous. It led to questions such as, if they wanted to turn the world into a place where connections weren’t as important as skills, why did Hydra help a sleazeball like Senator Stern to power? His superiors had told him that they were fueling conflicts _now_ to give people incentive to accept Hydra’s rule later, to accept the promise of a world that was free of conflicts because it was united under Hydra’s rule. But Brock had been there, he’d seen the glee and lust in some of the agents’ eyes as civilians were cowering in fear and helpless women were raped _for fun_. (Never in his own people, though. Brock had chosen them for their loyalty to the Cause, had made sure they shared his goals and did what was necessary to achieve them.) With the distance of two years of solo work, Brock could admit to himself that those men wouldn’t have stopped hurting innocents even after Hydra had won. Would Hydra have initiated weak-link protocol then? Would they have eliminated those who simply liked to be cruel? He was doubting it now.

Brock leaned his head against the tiled wall, closed his eyes and let the water run over his neck. If his suspicions were right – if Hydra had never really planned to make good on their promises – then what had he really been working for? Had he spilled innocent blood for nothing? Brock felt bile rising in his throat. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ He was panicking, his mind helpfully supplying him with memories of all the horrible, unforgivable things he’d done in Hydra’s name.

A few minutes later, Brock came back to himself enough to shut off the water, grab a towel, dry himself with shaking hands, put on some clothes and collapse on his bed. He turned towards the wall to hide his face from the camera that he was sure was hidden somewhere in the cell and curled up beneath the blanket. There was a constant litany of _What have I done?_ circling through his mind. _I was sure Hydra had saved me from becoming a criminal. Turns out, they made me do much worse things than I could ever have come up with on my own. Shit._ Just before he succumbed to his exhaustion, Brock thought darkly: _I can only hope that S.H.I.E.L.D. gives me a chance to redeem myself – and that Jemma won’t despise me for what I’ve done._

  
* ∼ *

Jemma sat in Coulson’s office, her face white as a sheet. “I had read his file, of course. But that didn’t include a tenth of what he’s told Agent Morse today. And they only covered the first five years..."

“If you say that you cannot take responsibility for Rumlow, we can still call everything off and make him disappear in the Avengers’ prison. There are ways to exchange your hormones that don’t include ever being in the same room."

Jemma swallowed at Coulson’s calm tone. He was really letting her decide. _If it turns out that Brock is still working for Hydra – if I get him his freedom, and then he goes and does something horrible again – I don’t think I could live with myself._ Jemma’s mind circled back to the stories Brock had told today, atrocity after atrocity. _But that’s the thing. He did tell us about it. And not just the things_ he _did, but also lots of important Hydra interna. That’s got to count for something, right? He’s burning all his bridges because he trusts that I will hold up my end of the bargain. If I let him go to prison now... That would be a horrible betrayal. I’d be almost as bad as Ward._ She sat up straighter.

“No. I still want to try it. I mean– what he did was horrible, but so were the actions of Agent Romanoff before she came to S.H.I.E.L.D. I think it’s a good sign that he’s telling us things so readily. And the information is going to serve S.H.I.E.L.D. well, isn’t it?

“Oh, definitely", Coulson confirmed. “And so far, Skye hasn’t found a single lie in what he’s told us."

“Then we would be stupid to waste this chance. Is there anything I can do at this stage?"

Coulson looked thoughtful. “I asked Fitz to design a tracker which nobody can get rid of, not even someone who is willing to cut into his own flesh. You could help him with that."

“Yes, of course." Jemma licked her lips nervously. “Do you think it would be counterproductive if I went down to the Vault? Only when there are no interviews, of course."

Coulson studied her intently. “You like him already, don’t you?"

Jemma shrugged self-consciously. “Maybe a little? But that was to be expected, wasn’t it? We _are_ soulmates, after all."

“Indeed. Well, Agent Simmons – I trust you not to do anything stupid, like opening the barrier. You can talk to him as much as you want, but please be aware that the monitoring equipment is active at all times."

“Thank you, Sir", Jemma said with a grateful smile.

It was only when Jemma stood in front of the one-way mirror that was the current setting of the barrier that she got a bit nervous. Brock was lying on the bed with his head turned towards the wall. Was he sleeping? And if he wasn’t – what was she even going to say to him? ‘Thank you for betraying your murderous employer to get a chance at a life with me?’

_If I stare at him through the barrier much longer, I’m gonna look like a creepy stalker on the security tape._

Resolutely, Jemma grabbed the tablet and switched the barrier to transparent. Brock flinched at the sound of the disappearing barrier and quickly sat up. His hair was still slightly moist and his face looked drawn. Jemma almost regretted disturbing him (_Good grief, what was I thinking? He must’ve had a horrible day, he’s been grilled for hours by Bobbi and now I’m stealing his precious few moments of peace..._) but then Brock recognized her and smiled hesitatingly. “Jemma. I was beginning to think Coulson had forbidden you to visit me."

“Oh, no. I just wasn’t supposed to interfere with the interview", Jemma assured him as she sat down on the visitor chair.

“Ah. And did you already hear about what was said in the interview?"

Even Jemma could recognize how carefully neutral that question was delivered. She nodded seriously. “My friend Skye has been asked to check everything you say. I had the day off, so I watched the video feed with her."

Under his dark tan, Brock paled slightly. “I see. And you didn’t run away screaming?"

“I will be honest with you: I was quite shocked by some of the things you did. Repulsed, even. But I share Director Coulson’s conviction that everybody deserves a second chance. And I just hope that you being my soulmate means it’s possible for you to change."

“I'll do my best", Brock promised her quietly. “But just as a warning, there are more than fifteen years left to talk about. And things will still get much worse. I understand that you wanna know what you’re getting yourself into, just – please know that I regret most of it now."

“Then why did you do it?", Jemma repeated a question she had asked on Catalina Island.

Brock grimaced. “I told you that already. It made sense at the time."

“Yes, I know you said that you wanted to create a better world, but... it must have occurred to you that a bunch of Nazis don’t have everybody’s best interest at heart."

Brock pinched his nose, looking pained. “Kowalski – the colonel who recruited me – didn’t tell me the name immediately. He outlined the goals of his organization, warned me that I would have to break a few laws. I was convinced it would be worth it, after all, I had broken the law a few times already. When he was happy with my reaction, he told me that the organization was Hydra. And I asked him, ‘Really? The Nazis? The guys Captain America fought? Are you kidding me?’ Kowalski must have realized that he was close to losing me. So he told me that Hydra had changed a lot since the war, especially since most of its leadership had been killed or captured by the Howling Commandoes. He said they didn’t believe in white supremacy anymore, in fact didn’t care about a person’s background at all. They only wanted loyalty and the willingness to work hard, then they would be able to create a new world order, without terrorists and murderers, without war and suffering. And it would be possible for everyone to find their place in this new system. It sounded... really good to me."

Jemma sighed. “I can understand why you would want something like that. But – you have to admit it sounds rather naive."

“Maybe. But think about what S.H.I.E.L.D. told you when they hired you. You and your friend Fitz have designed weapons, haven’t you? Your inventions have killed people, and you have to trust S.H.I.E.L.D. that they deserved to die. You must’ve had missions, or at least heard about missions, where you’re not sure S.H.I.E.L.D. made the right decision."

Jemma pursed her lips. “Maybe one or two. But I was never asked to kill one of my colleagues because his loyalty was in question!"

“No, I guess not. But as I said, those things only started happening when I’d already been a member of Hydra for a few years. By then, it was too late to get out." When Brock noted Jemma’s scepticism, he added: “I’m not trying to make myself sound like a victim of a sect or something. Physically, I could’ve probably managed to get out. I would’ve had to hide in some remote country far away from any cameras for the rest of my life, but I would’ve managed. No, what I mean is that I would’ve had to admit to myself that I had become a murderer and a terrorist. And I was too much of a coward for that."

_If this is an act, it’s a really good one_, Jemma thought as she stared at Brock’s miserable expression. _God, I hope it’s not an act._ “Being a coward doesn’t excuse killing dozens of people."

“No, it doesn’t", Brock agreed seriously. “That’s why I hope you’ll give me a chance to repay my debts."

“That mostly depends on you. At the moment, both Coulson and I are willing to risk it, but you will have to convince the judge as well."

“I'll try." With a small, hollow laugh he made a gesture that indicated the depressing cell and said: “Believe me, I’m very motivated."

Jemma didn’t really know how to reply to that. Also, she'd had enough horrible revelations for one day. So she stood up, smoothed her sensible pants and said with an overly-bright smile. “Well, I guess I’d better get going, then. After all, you need to rest your voice for your interview tomorrow."

Brock nodded hesitatingly. He probably wanted to enjoy her company a little longer, after all, he didn’t know when she would come back (or even if the next day’s stories would make her reconsider her offer). But Jemma didn’t give him a chance to try and persuade her, she quickly touched a symbol on the tablet and the barrier turned completely opaque. As soon as Brock couldn’t see her anymore, Jemma’s bright grin faded. “Puh. That was intense."

She had promised Skye a girls’ night, and maybe that was just what she needed right now. When Jemma checked her phone, she saw that Skye had sent her a message asking her to come to one of the smaller kitchens. Surprised, Jemma found her friend surrounded by baking supplies. “How do you feel about chocolate chip cookies?", Skye asked as a greeting. “There’s nothing that soothes as much as working with chocolate."

Jemma had to grin. “Not the most healthy dinner option, but okay. Tell me what to do."

“You’re the chemist, you weigh the ingredients", Skye instructed and pointed to her tablet, which was displaying a recipe. As Jemma moved to get the digital scales from the cupbord, Skye dug around for a big wooden board and an equally big knife to cut the chocolate. When they were both focusing on their respective tasks, Skye said offhandedly: “So. Rumlow."

“Yes?", Jemma asked carefully. “What about him?"

“Well, we haven’t really had a lot of time to talk since everything happened. At least not alone. So tell me, what do you think?"

Jemma sighed. “That’s hard to say. Mostly I’m still stuck being surprised that I actually found my soulmate, and under such unusual circumstances at that."

“But are you happy that you found him?"

“Of course", Jemma replied unthinkingly. “But it would have been much easier if he was a civilian, wouldn’t it?"

“I suppose." Skye hummed contemplatively. “But I guess it does have its advantages. At least he understands what your job demands of you."

Jemma huffed. “You could say that. Unfortunately, now _I_ know what _his_ job demanded of _him_. You’ve heard even more than I have, it was horrible!"

“Yeah", Skye admitted with a grimace. “If he wasn’t your soulmate, I’d hope that he gets a lifetime in prison. But if he shares a soul with you, there must be something good in him."

“Do you really think so?", Jemma asked timidly.

Skye turned around and looked at her sharply. “Of course. I don’t know anyone who’s as compassionate as you are. You’re a good person, Jemma."

“There are a lot of scientists who work for Hydra. I used to be friends with many of them while we were at the Academy."

“But they never even tried to recruit you. They knew it wouldn’t work", Skye insisted. “Sure, you can get a bit over-enthusiastic with your projects. But you do it because you want to help people. You wouldn’t turn someone into a lab rat against their will."

Jemma shuddered. “No. Never."

“See? Good person."

“I don’t know, Skye. Fitz and I invented lots of weapons, and I never really made sure what they were used for. Hydra must have gotten their hands on many of them. And... I think I might be able to hurt people much more directly. Take Ward, for example. I don’t know what I would do if I were to meet him again."

“Okay, first: Ward is a special case. _Everyone_ on this team wants to hurt him. And after what he did to all of us, I think that’s a perfectly normal reaction. And second: Your work, and Fitz’s, helped save a lot of lives. Without the ICERs, we wouldn’t take half as many bad guys alive. And if our people had to choose between killing someone or not shooting at all, they might wait too long and also get hurt more often. Yes, Hydra might have used some of your stuff as well, but how would you have tried to prevent that? If that’s your logic, you should’ve never joined S.H.I.E.L.D., and remember how often we’ve saved the world together. _I_ certainly wouldn’t be alive anymore."

Jemma tried to swallow past the big lump in her throat. “Skye, that’s... I don’t think anybody’s ever..." She blinked rapidly.

“Aw, Jemma, don’t cry. C’mere." Skye let her chocolate-coated knife clatter to the table and engulfed Jemma in a hug. “You really thought being soulmates with a Hydra agent meant you were bad, too, didn’t you?"

Jemma nodded mutely. The thought had circled through her head all day while she was listening to the atrocities Brock confessed to Bobby. She had wondered how Fate could think that they were compatible, and the only explanation she had come up with had been that her actions must have lead to similarly disastrous results.

“No, Jemma. Just no. I really meant what I said, you’re one of the best people I know. And I’m absolutely sure that Fate wants you to turn Rumlow to our side, not the other way around."

Jemma closed her eyes and squeezed back. She took a few deep breaths while she allowed Skye’s words to soothe the worries she hadn’t dared voice so far. Then she stood back up and said earnestly: “Thank you, Skye. It really means a lot."

Skye seemed a bit embarrassed. “That’s what friends are for, isn’t it? And now let’s get back to the cookies, I’m getting hungry."

That startled a laugh out of Jemma, and the serious atmosphere dissipated. She turned back to mix sugar and butter. Behind her, Skye asked in a teasing voice: “So, Hydra-unpleasantness aside, what do you think of him?"

Jemma bit her lip and tried to come up with an answer that was honest but not too embarrassing. She needn’t have worried, because Skye followed up with: “If you ask me, he’s smokin’ hot."

“I wouldn’t have used those words, but he is terribly attractive, yes", Jemma agreed smilingly. “Maybe a bit old, but then again, ten years isn’t that much once you’ve passed thirty."

“He certainly kept himself in shape. I mean, not that I was ogling him or anything, but he didn’t exactly wear a lot of clothes when he was in the Cradle."

“You should have seen him fight", Jemma said with a sigh. “There was a moment when I thought we might actually make it out on our own. Of course, then he got hit in his stab wound again and it was a miracle that he was staying upright at all."

“We seem to have a knack for attracting tough guys, huh?", Skye asked jokingly.

As both women were suddenly reminded of Ward, the mood shifted once again. Subdued, Jemma said: “Of course, good looks and an impressive skill set aren’t everything. We need men who are loyal, and who share our beliefs."

“And what do you think, could Rumlow be that man for you?"

“I’m not sure. If he really spills all his secrets, that would already be a good sign. I’m willing to give him a chance."

“Which is very noble of you. I really hope this works out. You deserve some happiness."

The rest of the evening was filled with friendly banter and lighter subjects of conversation, as well as a batch of delicious cookies. The next day, Jemma got up early and went straight to the lab she shared with Fitz. Her friend was already there, tinkering with something tiny under a magnifying glass.

“Jemma! I didn’t see you yesterday."

Jemma replied in a cheery voice: “I had the day off, remember?"

“As if that could keep you out of the lab", Fitz teased.

“I went to visit Skye in the morning, and got distracted. She was watching the live-feed from Brock’s interrogation."

Fitz’s smile dimmed a little. “Oh. Right. How did that go?"

“To be honest, it was quite daunting. He has done some terrible things, Fitz. But there must be a reason why Fate thinks we are meant for each other, right? Skye thinks it’s so that I can bring him to our side, and turn him into a good person."

“I certainly hope so", Fitz said honestly. “I mean, it would be horrible if he tried to get you on Hydra’s side."

Jemma shuddered. “That's never going to happen. Every time I read a report of a raid on one of their bases, I feel like throwing up."

They were both silent for a moment. Finally, Fitz muttered darkly: “This would only be half as bad if we hadn’t been betrayed by a friend before."

Jemma nodded sadly. “I keep thinking about that, too. Brock spent the last ten years with STRIKE, but he was trained as a specialist, just like– you know who. If he’s only half as good at acting..."

“But this time, we know what we have to look for. We won’t be caught off guard again. And hopefully, nothing will even happen."

“That would be good. Because if anything did happen, it would either mean that Brock dies, and I with him, or that I will be forever bound to someone in a maximum security prison."

Fitz grimaced. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. And as a little added security, I’m working on this." He gestured to the magnifying glass and the screen behind it, which showed a circuit board.

“Ah yes, Coulson told me. It’s a tracker, right?"

And that was how Jemma came to help develop surveillance equipment for her soulmate. It felt a bit strange to work on something meant to monitor the person who should, by all rights, become her closest partner, confidant and most trusted friend. Still, she understood that it was necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a look at Elizabeth Henstridge's and Frank Grillo's years of birth to estimate Jemma's and Brock's age: 1987 and 1965. I'll admit I didn't expect that - Frank Grillo really kept himself in shape... But I want them to have a little more time together, so I made Brock ten years younger (born 1975) and Jemma two years older (born 1985).


	5. The soulmate plea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the hardest chapter for me to write so far. I have no experience with the American justice system (or any other justice system, for that matter), so if you notice anything odd, just pretend it's because Jemma and Brock are secret agents who can't air their dirty laundry in public. I also have a slight suspicion that I might be misusing the word "plea" here - if you can suggest a better term, please leave me a comment :-).

Over the next four days, Agent Morse spent almost every waking hour interrogating Brock. It was exhausting. He had to dredge up all the old stories, everything he had successfully managed to forget in the past. Recounting out loud exactly what he had done for Hydra made him feel incredibly dirty. Despite her attempts to be professional, Brock could read Morse’s disgust in the set of her mouth, the flatness of her questions. It was only too easy to imagine the same disgust, albeit less well disguised, on Skye’s and Jemma’s faces as they were watching the recordings. It didn’t help his peace of mind that Jemma didn’t come for another visit. _Did I manage to scare her away?_, Brock thought morosely when he went to bed on the third day. _Then why even keep going?_

_Because it could be a test_, he answered his own question. _S.H.I.E.L.D. might want to know how serious I am about this. Well, now it’s too late to back out, anyway._

It was early evening on the fourth day when Brock declared: “And then I was briefed about Project Insight."

He could see Morse sitting up straighter.

“It was meant to be launched in October. Hydra’s greatest coup, the one that would finally bring about a new world order. The fulfilment of the promise so many of us had been recruited with. Of course, Hydra underestimated the levels of Fury’s paranoia. He hired George Batroc to attack the Lemurian Star, the satellite launch ship, and then sent STRIKE Team Alpha together with Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff to take down the pirates. As Hydra found out later, Romanoff managed to get into the control room and copied a big chunk of secret data. When Fury asked Senator Pierce to postpone the launch of the Helicarriers, Pierce knew Fury was onto us and ordered the Asset – Sergeant Barnes – to kill him. You probably know that he shot Fury in Captain Rogers’ apartment. Jasper Sitwell and I were in the observation room when Fury died. Secretary Pierce was worried that Fury might have found something out before his death, and that he had told Captain Rogers about it. So he asked us to take the Captain in, quietly. Or as quietly as possible." Brock huffed. “I thought attacking him in an elevator was a good idea, it’s a small space where he can’t really use his shield, and we had magnetic cuffs that at least slowed him down. I told you that I’d worked with him for almost a year, I knew quite a bit about how he fights and what he can do. So I wasn’t very surprised that he managed to knock us all out, but I had counted on the fact that he wouldn’t simply kill his former colleagues – which he didn’t. My backup plan was that the fight would buy other teams enough time to be stationed on the relevant floors, and that Rogers would be forced to surrender by the sheer number of armed people." He chuckled darkly. “Never in a million years would I have thought that he’d simply jump – what, ten floors? – down to the atrium."

Morse shrugged. “He’s something else."

“Yeah", Brock agreed, “but without Romanoff he probably wouldn’t have made it. We got alerted when the USB stick with the data from the Lemurian Star was plugged into a computer in a mall. My STRIKE team deployed immediately, but they managed to evade us. I saw the security footage later, it was Romanoff’s tricks that saved them. We spent the rest of the day half preparing for the early launch of the Insight ’carriers, half trying to find Rogers and Romanoff. Then we got another alert, a secret bunker in Camp Leigh had been breached. I’d never heard about it before, but this was where Arnim Zola, Hydra’s greatest scientist, had stored a copy of his brain on magnetic tape. Pierce ordered a full-on assault. When we arrived at the site, it had been completely destroyed by a rocket strike, but somehow the Captain and Romanoff had made it out. I knew that my team and I were hopelessly outmatched, so I asked to send the Asset after them. And the next day, he really managed to corner them in Washington, even though Rogers found out about the Asset’s true identity. So we arrested them. My orders were clear, we were supposed to eliminate the threat, but without knowledge of the public. Hydra wanted to be sure that the stories would be spun by its own propaganda machinery... Anyway, the Captain, Romanoff and their friend managed to escape from our van. Pierce was apoplectic, he accused me of working with Rogers. I was almost sure he was gonna shoot me on the spot. But there were enough witnesses to prove that it wasn’t my fault, Rogers and Romanoff were just damn skilled and damn lucky.

So I was tasked with making sure everything worked smoothly when the ’carriers were supposed to go in the air later. Of course, Rogers and his friends showed up and everything just descended into chaos. I went to the control room and used an override sequence that Pierce had given me to launch the ’carriers, then went wherever dispatch sent me. During that time, I ran into Captain Rogers’ friend, and we fought. He realized that there was a ’carrier coming towards us, I didn’t. So I got buried in burning rubble. Not an experience I’d recommend."

Morse’s mouth twitched in disgust. “Yeah, no."

“After that, I spent five months in a Hydra medical facility in Canada. Two thirds of my body were covered in second and third degree burns, my spine was severed, four ribs were broken and some cracked, I had a hairline fracture in my skull, plus some smaller injuries. With conventional medicine, I would’ve never walked again, let alone been able to go back into the field. So they pumped me full of all the experimental stuff they had – and it worked." Brock gestured along his very fit and only very slightly scarred body. “But they didn’t stop there. While they thought I was still too broken to notice, the doctors tested some of their poisons and other weapons on me."

“How did you know medicine from poison?", Morse asked suspiciously. “If they were experimental treatments, they might hurt pretty badly."

Brock smiled bitterly. “I heard them talk about it when they thought I was unconscious. Apparently, having the Avengers on their trail meant that their supply of test subjects had dried up, so they had to test things on their own people. And who better to use then someone who’s not even sure to survive, anyway?"

“All right", Morse conceded. “So what happened when you had recovered?"

“I stayed for rehab. Acted very thankful, as if I didn’t know what they’d done to me. Then, when I was almost back to my old form, I killed all the doctors and most of the guards and escaped from the facility."

Morse lifted an eyebrow. “You eliminated all the staff of a Hydra medical center by yourself?"

“Not all the staff. The people with lowest-level jobs, like the cleaners, the janitor, the kitchen staff, they were housed in a different building. I didn’t touch anybody in there. And most of the nurses survived as well, as long as they didn’t try to attack me. I only made sure to get all the doctors. And the guards, of course, because they would’ve tried to stop me."

“Yeah, that doesn’t really address the point I was trying to make."

Brock sighed. “Do you want me to give you a full account?"

“Not right now", Morse answered after a short moment of consideration. “You might be asked about it later." She typed something on her tablet. “Okay. So what happened after you got out?"

“I knew that Hydra would send a retrieval team after me and that they would find me sooner or later, so I found myself a defendable place and made sure it was sooner rather than later. Because I had set quite a few traps and knew more or less what I would be up against, I managed to eliminate the whole team. After that, Hydra left me alone. They had bigger problems, like you and the Captain and his friends. So I lay low for a month to see if anybody else was after me. When nobody came, I decided that a guy’s gotta eat and that my skill set wasn’t exactly useful for a civilian job, so I turned merc."

Morse asked Brock to briefly list all the jobs he did as a mercenary, which he did without hesitation. They hadn’t been too bad, from the perspective of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He ended with: “And then I got offered a job to steal an _inro_ from the Asian Civilisations Museum in Singapore, which is where your boss picked me up. You know the rest."

Morse nodded briskly. “I do indeed. That will be all for today. Good night."

After she had left, Brock cleared his throat and drank a whole cup of water. Over the course of the last five days, his voice had gone raspier and raspier. He would be happy to stop talking for a while. Many of the things Brock had confessed to Morse, he had never told to anyone before (maybe with the exception of his Hydra handlers), and now he felt strangely exposed. If S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted to break him, he had given them plenty of ammunition. _I guess I’ll just have to trust Coulson to keep his word. And Jemma as well._ Thoughts of his absent soulmate made him even more nervous, so Brock forced himself to stop thinking and go to bed.

The next morning, around the time Morse usually came, Coulson suddenly stood in front of the barrier. Brock lifted an expressive eyebrow at him. “Director."

“Good morning."

“No interview today?"

“We got everything we want for now, thanks to your cooperation. The legal department is writing up the dossier for the court as we speak, the judge and the prosecution will need about a week to read it all. So in the meantime, I’ve got something for you." With that, Coulson pressed the button to deactivate the barrier and placed a very thick book on the floor.

As the barrier snapped back up, Brock slowly walked over and picked up the book. “The S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook?", he asked incredulously. “I know that by heart already."

“I wasn’t sure, seeing as you didn’t really act by it", Coulson replied amiably. “But anyway, we made quite some changes to it. If you want to join my team, I expect you to know the new version. Have fun."

With that, he turned around and left the room. Brock looked after him with a baffled look on his face. Then he sighed. “I knew they’d make me suffer. I didn’t think it would be _this_ bad."

Lacking other options, Brock spent the day reading the thick manual. Coulson hadn’t been lying, many passages had been changed or even completely removed, while others had been added. The time that people could be kept prisoner without a court sentence had been drastically reduced, similar to the number of sanctioned interrogation techniques. _Looks like someone wanted to make sure no organization like Hydra could ever hide within S.H.I.E.L.D. again._ Brock was surprised to find that he approved of these changes. Maybe, just maybe, his dream of a fairer world order wasn’t completely dead yet. However, if he stuck to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s rules and, even worse, international law, it would have to come about as a series of reforms rather than the big revolution Hydra had promised. That would take a lot of time. _Well, it’s not like I have anything else to do, right?_ That evening, Brock spent a lot of time exercising, to burn away the nervous energy that had gathered during the day, thinking and planning. If he really wanted to commit to this new S.H.I.E.L.D., he would have to make an effort to change his _modus operandi_.

The next morning, Brock woke with a slight headache. _Must have been all that reading yesterday. Since I stopped writing reports, I’m not used to that anymore._ When the guards brought him his breakfast, they seemed a bit more nervous than usual.

“Everything all right up there?", Brock asked the leader with a raised eyebrow. “You seem a bit tense."

The man didn’t answer. His subordinates kept a tight grip on their guns as he placed the tray in the cell but didn’t utter a single word, either. Brock raised his hands in mock surrender and said jokingly: “Okay, I get it, don’t talk to the prisoner. But you can’t fault a guy for wanting some human interaction every once in a while."

As soon as the agent was back on the other side of the yellow line on the floor, the barrier turned opaque again. Brock sighed. He didn’t really feel like reading the handbook again, but if Coulson wanted him to know the new version by heart, he didn’t really have a choice. Brock went over to the barrier and picked up the tray. Well, at least the food was good.

Some time in the afternoon, there was a small noise and the barrier turned transparent. Brock looked up, and broke into a wide grin. “Jemma! What a pleasant surprise!"

Her answering smile was very wide, but her eyes showed some nervousness. “Hello, Brock. How are you feeling?"

“Bored out of my mind, but other than that, fine", Brock answered with a shrug and a teasing grin. “How about you? Been busy?"

Jemma blushed prettily. “Oh, the usual. Projects in the lab – the bio-chemistry lab, because I’m a biochemist, but you already knew that. Nothing special, just normal projects..." Her babble tapered off and she licked her lips. “Are you sure that you feel normal? No unusual sensations, inexplicable pains, nothing?"

“I had a slight headache this morning", Brock said slowly. He remembered the strange behaviour of the guards, tried to think back to the previous night. He had gone to sleep after taking a shower, it had become something of a ritual during the last few days. But had he woken up during the night at all? He couldn’t remember. Brock narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What happened last night?"

“Last night? What ever should have happened? We were all asleep, weren’t we?"

“You’re a really bad liar", Brock admonished matter-of-factly.

Jemma deflated. “I know, you’re not the first one to say that." She sighed. “I _told_ Coulson it was a bad idea to send me. I’m rubbish at keeping secrets. And I don’t want to have to lie to you, you’re my soulmate."

_God, she’s adorable._ Brock wisely refrained from saying that out loud. Instead, he raised an eyebrow. “I’m gonna repeat my question. What happened last night?"

“You remember that Captain Rogers wanted to lock you up in his own prison, right? Well, the only way Coulson could convince him to leave you in our custody instead, was to promise him some security measures of the highest standard. So we put you in this cell, from where nobody has ever–"

“You implanted something", Brock interrupted her in a flat voice. His face had turned to stone. “You drugged me and then you implanted something. What is it? A kill switch? Some kind of drug-delivery system? A–"

“A tracker", Jemma said quietly. “It’s just a tracker."

Brock laughed hollowly. “_Just_ a tracker? Should I be thankful now?"

“Brock...", his soulmate tried to say, but Brock didn’t let her finish.

“Fuck you, Simmons. I _told_ you that I was Hydra’s guinea pig for five months. Drugging me, and performing questionable medical procedures on me? _Not_ the way to gain my trust. Just ask Agent Morse what happened to the last people who did that to me."

The scientist flinched. “Okay, we might have underestimated your reaction a bit. But I swear, we didn’t do anything but implant the tracker. It’s undetectable, it will never compromise your cover or anything when you go back into the field. And once you’ve proven yourself, it will be removed again."

Brock jumped up and started pacing. _Get a grip, Rumlow. Come on, deep breaths. In-two-three, out-two-three-four, in-two-three, out-two-three-four... Yeah, that’s it. Don’t freak out in front of the camera – and your soulmate. You need her if you ever want to get out of here._ “Can you promise me that? That it will be removed again?"

Jemma nodded. When Brock only looked at her waitingly, she confirmed: “Yes, I can promise you that."

“And do you give me your word that nothing else has been done to me? No other implants, no drugs?"

“I give you my word", Jemma said solemnly. Brock stared at her but couldn’t detect any sign of deception.

So he sat back down with a sigh. “All right. I forgive you", Jemma visibly relaxed, “but only this one time." When Jemma looked surprised, Brock explained seriously: “I know that I’m the ‘bad guy’ here, the one who’s expected to work for this relationship and change his behaviour. And I’m willing to do that, Jemma, I really am. But I expect some honesty and respect in return. I’m not some lab experiment you can manipulate at will, I’m your partner. You could have just told me you wanted to implant a tracker, and I would have accepted it."

Jemma looked down at her clasped hands. “It wasn’t my idea to do it like this. But the others said it was too risky to tell you, because the soulmate plea isn’t through yet and you might still be planning to attack us."

“Christ, who do they think I am? The Hulk? Even while I _was_ Hydra, I wouldn’t have tried to take on a whole base by myself", Brock huffed in exasperation.

“Well, that depends on the desired outcome, doesn’t it? If you wanted to get out of here alive, sure, fighting your way through an entire S.H.I.E.L.D. base wouldn’t be very smart. But if you were willing to _die_ to help destroy S.H.I.E.L.D., killing a bunch of its best scientists – who happen to mean a lot to the Director – actually wouldn’t be the worst plan."

“No, it wouldn’t be", Brock conceded with a sigh. “I understand the reasoning. Doesn’t mean that I like it."

“On the upside, the legal department is very happy with you. They are working on the dossier for the court. Skye’s helping with the research, she says they are making good progress."

Brock smiled a little at Jemma’s enthusiasm. “Anything that gets me out of this cell."

“About that..." Jemma suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid that you will have to spend the nights in a cell even after the soulmate plea is through. It’s part of the security concept. But at least you’ll be free during the day."

“Of course", Brock said resignedly. “Let me guess, that rule will be relaxed once I’ve proved myself?"

“Pretty much", Jemma answered with an apologetic face.

With a meaningful glance, Brock said: “Well, at least you’re honest about it."

Before the blush had time to spread over Jemma’s face, she stiffened and unconsciously put a hand over her ear. Brock could guess that someone was talking to her via her comm device. Jemma grimaced. “Yes, of course. I will come at once. Just– don’t touch it, okay? No, Fitz, I said–" Jemma had gotten out of her chair and was already turned halfway towards the stairs. She suddenly seemed to remember Brock and said over her shoulder: “I’m sorry, there’s an accident in the lab. I gotta go before _someone contaminates everything_." The last words were clearly aimed at Fitz, who must be on the other side of the comm line.

“It’s okay, I won’t be going anywhere", Brock started, but he had the feeling that Jemma wasn’t even listenig to him anymore. “Hey, can you tell someone to bring me a magazine?", he shouted as an afterthought. There was no reply.

Brock didn’t know if Jemma had heard him after all, or if someone had checked the security footage, or if Coulson had had the idea on his own, but the next morning he received a newspaper with his breakfast. It was the current issue of the New York Times, with a two-page article about the tribe discovered on a remote island in the Pacific. It was much better than reading the S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook for the tenth time.

  
* ∼ *

“Coulson asked me to retrofit some infrared cameras, radios and GPS units", Fitz said by way of greeting as Jemma came into the lab the next morning. “Apparently, the U.N. have sent a delegation of several Polynesian tribes to our little island, to see if they can communicate with the natives. They were more or less successful, and now they want to find Magnusson, who’s hiding somewhere in the jungle. And they want to take apart the Bus and get it off the island, to prevent its modern technology from scaring the natives."

Once the U.N. had gotten involved, it had been found out fairly quickly that the island had been claimed by Spain in the 18th century and – unlike many of the other islands in the central Pacific Ocean – never been desired by any other nation, due to its anfavourable location and resulting unfitness as a military base. It even had a name, Catalina Island. Unsurprisingly, the Spanish were not very keen to suddenly be responsible for the wellbeing of an (almost) untouched tribe of more than two hundred people.

“And the U.N. want you to make their electronic equipment EMP-safe?"

“Exactly. I’m putting in mechanical time switches that disconnect the power source from the rest of the machine for one minute, every seventeen minutes. That way..."

Someone was clearing their throat. Both Jemma and Fitz turned around with surprise on their faces. These days, most people just used the phone if they wanted something from the science duo. Apparently, the red-haired, whipcord thin agent in the door was an exception.

“Agent Simmons?", she asked politely.

“Yes?"

“I am Agent Walsh, from the legal department. I am here to talk to you about the soulmate plea."

Jemma blinked. “Okay? What is there to talk about?"

“Your defense strategy."

“_My_ defense strategy? I think you got the wrong soulmate. You should probably talk to the one that’s down in the Vault", Jemma said wryly.

The other woman kept smiling politely. “No, I’m right where I should be. One of my colleagues will brief Mister Rumlow. But you need to be prepared as well. The prosecution will try to discredit you, so that the judge doesn’t deem you reliable enough to keep your soulmate on the right path."

Jemma swallowed. “Oh. Let’s sit down somewhere, then, shall we?"

  
* ∼ *

At just about the same time, a middle-aged man in a suit appeared in Brock’s cell.

“Mr. Rumlow? I’m Agent Marsten, part of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s legal department. I will be your defense attorney."

“Pleased to meet you, I guess", Brock said carefully.

“I have read your confession, and so have the judge and the prosecutor. The first hearing is scheduled for the day after tomorrow."

Brock raised an eyebrow in surprise. “That was fast."

Agent Marsten sniffed haughtily. “The Director wanted speedy proceedings, so that is what our department delivered. Now, I am here to discuss your defense strategy."

“Okay. Well, I thought..."

“When I said ‘discuss’, I meant that I would inform you of the strategy. It has already been planned _en detail_", Agent Marsten interrupted Brock.

“Of course it has", Brock muttered lowly.

Agent Marsten ignored this comment completely. “Judge Perrywrinkle has both granted and denied soulmate pleas in the past, so a positive outcome of yours is not a given. But the judge does like S.H.I.E.L.D. and will not sabotage the process deliberately, so you have a fair chance. Now, the prosecution will try to paint you as a notorious villain with no chance of true redemption, and might try to discredit Agent Simmons to prevent her from being allowed to vouch for you. The latter doesn’t have to concern you, we will coach Agent Simmons separately. As for the former... Your confession is extensive enough for us to argue that you have burned all your bridges and shown a willingness to make sacrifices for a chance at a new life. It is important that you show remorse when asked about any particular event, but not so much that the judge thinks you are acting. Also, ..."

Brock raised his hand to stop the seemingly endless flow of words. “Just– one question. Have you ever done a soulmate plea before?"

“Yes, actually. Four times, two of those with Judge Perrywrinkle. And I won every one of them", Marster answered smugly.

Brock nodded slowly. “All right. Then I guess you know what you’re doing. So, you were saying?"

The meeting lasted more than two hours. Agent Marsten gave some general instructions first, then asked Brock to clarify a few details from his confession. “There are some incidents which the prosecution will likely ask you about. Everything involving children, for example, but I have a list for you with a few other missions as well. We have come up with answers that will make you seem less like an evil Nazi and more like a misguided soldier." They went over the list, then Marsten left Brock with a thick stack of papers to memorize. Jemma didn’t come to Brock’s cell on this day or the next, leaving him with enough time to prepare as well as he could.

On the day of the hearing, the morning shift of guards not only brought him breakfast as usual, but also suit pants, a leather belt, dress shoes and a crisply ironed white shirt. They told him they would be back in an hour to pick him up. Brock was used to eating despite a ball of nerves in his stomach, so he finished it all. After he’d dressed, Brock briefly mourned the fact that he had neither a mirror nor any of the hair products he’d once been so fond of. Well, nothing to be done about it but comb his hair and hope it looked presentable.

The guards were on time, their leader brought the same special-issue handcuffs as they had used when Brock had arrived at the base. Every time Brock saw them, he was reminded of Project Insight, and how he had arrested the Captain and his friends in the wake of the Asset’s work. _Better not to think of that clusterfuck right now._ Brock didn’t protest when the handcuffs were put on, or when a bag was put over his head. There was a long walk, then the bag disappeared. The group was standing in a windowless garage which held a sleek black sedan and a nondescript van. Coulson, Jemma, Agent Marsten, and a red-haired woman that Brock had never seen before were standing in front of the sedan. Jemma eyed him appreciatively. The suit and hair must not look too bad, then. Brock nodded to the other three and smiled at his soulmate.

Jemma smiled back. “We will be right behind you."

One of the guards openend the back of the van and climbed inside, followed by one of his colleagues. “You next", the leader of the guards ordered. As Brock got in, he saw that the space was separated from the driver’s compartment by a metal wall. The two guards who had gotten in before him were sitting on a bench with their backs to the wall, facing a single seat in the middle of the space. This was obviously where Brock was supposed to go. Behind this seat, there were two more, where the remaining two guards could watch his back. Brock had to admit, if he had wanted to flee, this would have been a hard task. Especially when he realised that there were two metallic manacles welded to the seat that were designed to close around his upper arms. Keeping a straight face, but sighing internally, Brock sat down and allowed himself to be cuffed to the seat. If everything went well today, this was the last time he would be treated with such mistrust. And hopefully, the restraints wouldn’t crinkle his shirt too badly.

The car ride was longer than Brock had anticipated. His guards were silent, never taking their eyes off him. Knowing that two armed men were sitting right behind him made the hair on Brock’s neck stand on end. _Stay calm_, Brock told himself, sparing a short glance at the two cameras that were attached to the corners of the roof. He closed his eyes and mentally went over Agent Marsten’s advice once more.

Finally, after what must have been at least two hours, the van stopped and the rear door opened. The leader of the guards opened both the manacles that fastened Brock to the seat and the heavy-duty handcuffs, handed him a suit jacket and told him to follow him. Outside, there was yet another garage, this one with a number of expensive looking SUVs, sedans and even a handful of limousines. Coulson, Marsten, Jemma and the other woman were just getting out of their car. While the Director was stoic as ever, Jemma had a nervous look on her face. Brock wanted to say something to ease her worry, but didn’t quite know what. He was spared from having to make a decision by the appearance of a court official.

“Please follow me", the young woman in a smart business suit asked them politely, turned around and walked over to an elevator. It took the whole group up to the fifth floor, where the corridor was bathed in daylight. Brock blinked at the sudden brightness. This was the first time he had seen daylight in eight days. _Huh._

“This way", the court official said and walked to the left. She knocked at a door that looked like any other office door, and ushered everyone but the guards inside before closing the door again. Brock recognized top-notch soundproofing when he saw it, as he did bulletproof glass. In what otherwise looked like a normal meeting room, there were four tables arranged in a rectangle. The table in front of the windows, which was facing the door, was of a better quality than the other three, both of its chairs unoccupied. There was a white-haired man sitting at the table on the left, presumably the prosecutor. The young woman who had picked them up from the garage told Brock and Marsten to sit at the table on the right, while Jemma, Coulson and the female agent – Brock assumed she was Jemma’s legal support – took seats at the table in front of the door.

There was a heavy silence in the room, the prosecutor staring coldly at Brock and Marsten, while Jemma fiddled nervously with the cuffs of her shirt. Finally, the door opened and an elderly man in robes entered. Everyone quickly got to their feet and waited until he had seated himself before sitting back down as well.

Judge Periwinkle cleared his throat. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I hereby open the case of Rumlow and Simmons versus the United States of America, a soulmate plea. Due to the nature of both soulmates’ work, the hearing has to take place without any audience. Miss Block will write the protocol and assist with any other administrative tasks. Other than her, only the prosecution, the defendants with their attorneys, and the witnesses are allowed to be in this room. Is there anybody here who does not fit that description?" There was a moment of silence. “Good. Then we will start with some formalities: I hereby inform the witnesses that they are required to answer all questions asked by the court according to their best knowledge. Lying to the court is a serious offence and punishable by a fine or a prison sentence of up to three months. Do you understand?"

He was met by a chorus of “Yes, your Honour"s. Judge Periwinkle nodded seriously. He waved Miss Block forwards, who handed a sheet of paper and a pen to everyone but the prosecutor. “Then please sign this form to confirm that you have understood. We start by questioning Mister Rumlow, so will all other witnesses please follow my assistant to the waiting room until they are called to make a statement."

Brock watched silently as Jemma, Coulson and Jemma’s lawyer left the room. When they were gone, Miss Block put the papers in her folder and told Brock and Marsten to sit down at the table that had just been vacated. _Good tactic to put people with their back to the door when they are questioned. Makes them less confident_, the interrogation specialist in Brock noted. As soon as they had settled, Miss Block returned to her seat as well and picked up a pen and a legal pad. Judge Periwinkle cleared his throat. “Very well. Let us start by confirming your identity. Are you Brock Rumlow, son of Rebecca Rumlow and an unknown father, born in Queensbury, Nebraska, on the eighth of June 1975, currently living on a S.H.I.E.L.D. base whose location is classified?"

“Yes, your Honour."

“In the interest of speeding up the proceedings, I would like to make use of your previous statements. I note for the protocol that you have given a very thorough confession, which includes your whole life from childhood until a few weeks ago. You have been given a copy of the document, as have the prosecution and the court itself. Do you wish to redact or correct any of what is written in this document?"

“No, your Honour."

“Good. Then you now have the chance to make your opening statement."

Agent Marsten had prepared Brock for this. He kept his face open and honest as he said: “I hope that this court will decide to give me a second chance. I made many mistakes in my life, some of which led to suffering, injury or even death of innocent people. Now, with a few years distance, I have realized that while my _intentions_ might have been good at the beginning, I was following the wrong cause. It was never going to lead to the type of just, peaceful society I was hoping for, and I should have stopped what I was doing much sooner.

Now, I have a very good reason to fundamentally change my behaviour: I have found my soulmate. Jemma Simmons is a compassionate, selfless person who has dedicated her life to helping other people. She is a valued member of S.H.I.E.L.D., an organization that has recently been restructured and given the official approval of the United Nations. Jemma has offered to vouch for me, and S.H.I.E.L.D. has offered to let me help them in their effort to make the world a safer place. If this court gives me the opportunity, I would like to use my skills to make amends for what I’ve done in the past."

Miss Block had been scribbling away rapidly during Brock’s speech. Judge Periwinkle looked thoughtful.

“Thank you, Mister Rumlow. With that, I ask the prosecution for their opening statement."

The prosecutor cleared his throat. “Thank you, your Honour. We all know that a soulmate plea is meant to spare a law-abiding citizen the discomfort of having to regularly visit their felonious bondmate in prison. It relies on the assumption that a felon might change his behaviour out of love for his soulmate, and that his partner can guarantee his future good behaviour. During this hearing, I will convince the court that the discomfort of Miss Simmons, who has not always been perfectly law-abiding herself, weighs much less than the threat posed by releasing Mister Rumlow from custody. He is a danger to the populace, he is a murderer and a terrorist. The confirmed number of casualties from his confession alone includes forty-eight deaths, of those ten women and three children. Nothing his soulmate promises can mitigate these deeds."

Brock had to swallow. Summarized like that, it did sound quite awful. The judge also looked grim. “Miss Block, did you catch all that? Good. Then I ask the prosecution to start questioning the defendant."

The prosecutor turned his arresting gaze on Brock. “Mister Rumlow, your confession reads like the worst case scenario of a law textbook. You have broken just about every law of the United States of America, many of them multiple times. It would take too long to discuss all your felonies, so I will restrict myself to the worst, namely murder and terrorism." He looked down at the paper in front of him. "Do I understand correctly that you attacked a school in Somalia in 2008, causing the death of a ten-year-old?"

“Yes, you do. However, the death of the student was a tragic accident. We were ordered to make it look like the al-Shabaab had attacked the school, which promoted a rather liberal world-view, to further destabilize the region. But we never intended to kill anyone, only to scare people. As the later investigations showed, the boy had a heart condition and suffered a seizure triggered by his fear. I couldn’t sleep for quite a while after that."

The prosecutor kept grilling Brock for almost four hours. It was nerve-wracking, but Brock was used to keeping his cool while under fire. And you could say what you wanted about Marsten’s arrogance – the man _had_ done a good job preparing Brock for the prosecutor’s questions. Finally, Judge Periwinkle announced that they were through with Brock and would start to question Jemma after a short break. Brock and Marsten were escorted to the waiting room, where from the looks of it Jemma had almost worn a hole in the carpet with her nervous pacing.

“And? How was it?", she asked slightly breathlessly.

Brock shrugged. “Intense. I’m not sure what the judge’ll make of it."

“You did well, though", Marsten said reluctantly. “Good acting skills certainly make our job easier."

Jemma paled. As she had told Brock, she was a horrible actress. Coulson seemed to notice her reaction as well. He smiled benignly and assured her: “Don’t worry, Agent Simmons. You don’t have to act, just be your usual charming self and we’ll be fine."

She still looked almost ready to faint when the assistant arrived to call her and her lawyer to the meeting room. Brock tried to give her an encouraging smile but wasn’t sure if he succeeded. Then they had to wait. Brock told himself that it was easier than the wait before a fight. Even if their plea was rejected, he wouldn’t be executed, unlike in some sticky situations he’d found himself in before. _Although lifelong imprisonment might just be worse than a quick death. Congratulations, Rumlow, way to cheer yourself up._

The clock on the waiting room wall told him that a little more than an hour had passed by the time Jemma came back. Her face was flushed but she exuded determination and a certain amount of baffled indignation. “The audacity of that man! To suggest that I work for S.H.I.E.L.D. as a way to _satisfy my megalomaniacal tendencies_..."

Brock had to hide a smile at her quiet sputtering. God, he hoped the plea came through. He would love to get to know her better. The assistant who had accompanied Jemma and her lawyer asked Coulson to come with her. Jemma hadn’t completely cooled off before the Director and the court official returned.

The young man straightened his shoulders and declared: “Judge Periwinkle has announced that the collected evidence is comprehensive enough for him to make a decision today. Mister Rumlow, please follow me."

Brock’s heart started beating faster. He hadn’t expected things to progress so quickly, even though Marsten had told him that Periwinkle liked to close his cases as soon as possible. Brock was dimly aware of Marsten falling into step behind him as they made their way back to the high-security meeting room. The judge wasn’t there when they entered, but the prosecutor leveled a grim glare at them. He almost seemed to take Brock’s crimes personally. Time dragged like a chewing gum until finally the door opened and Periwinkle came back. Everyone got to their feet and watched the elderly man shuffle to his seat. He looked down at the paper in his hands, then cleared his throat.

“The court has come to a decision. Mister Rumlow’s crimes are numerous, and some of them would ordinarily justify a death sentence. However, he has convincingly declared his wish to make amends, and his soulmate, an upstanding young woman with an impeccable record, has pledged to help keep him on the right path. Therefore, the soulmate plea is granted."

Brock felt dizzy with relief. He closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating on his breath and the rapid beating of his heart. He’d made it. God, he felt as if he'd escaped a firing squad. In a way, he had.

But Judge Periwinkle wasn’t done yet. “Due to the unusual history and skill set of the defendant, the court has decided on two conditions: The first is that Mister Rumlow’s whereabouts have to be monitored until further notice. The second is that he has to check in with a parole officer once a month. I understand that the first condition is already fulfilled by a tracking device installed by S.H.I.E.L.D?"

“Yes, your Honour. My client is wearing a subdermal tracker, whose position he does not know and cannot easily find out", Agent Marsten answered crisply.

“Good. Then I hereby close this hearing." With that the judge nodded to the room in general and left. The prosecutor, who looked as if he had bitten into a lemon, stormed after him.

Brock held his hand out to Agent Marsten. “Thank you for your excellent work."

“It’s why S.H.I.E.L.D. hired me", Marsten replied haughtily, but he did shake the offered hand. “Now come on, I imagine the Director and Agent Simmons are waiting impatiently to hear the news."

When Brock entered the waiting room, he didn’t have to say a single word. The smile on his face was enough to send Jemma squealing through the room. She hugged him enthusiastically. “We won, didn’t we?"

“Yes, we did", Brock confirmed. He held Coulson’s eyes for a moment, who smiled pleasedly and got up to shake Brock’s hand.

“Welcome back to S.H.I.E.L.D., Private Consultant Rumlow."

_Not back to full Agent-status, then. Not very surprising._ There was some more hand-shaking between Marsten, Coulson, Jemma and her lawyer, then they started to make their way back to the garage. The S.H.I.E.L.D. security guards snapped to attention when they saw the group leave the elevator. Brock eyed the van warily. “Now that I’m cleared, I can ride in your car, right?"

“I suppose", Coulson replied with a shrug. He threw the car key over to Brock’s lawyer and made his way to the front seat on the passenger side. “Agent Marsten, you’re driving. Agent Walsh, please join the agents in the van."

It made sense, Brock supposed. If he was planning to do something funny on the trip, Coulson would be the only person with a weapon. Well, he wasn’t planning anything besides talking, so he slid in next to Jemma on the back seat. For the first few minutes, Brock only looked out the window and enjoyed the view. He’d only been locked in a cell for eight days, but already started to go stir crazy. Brock really wasn’t made for inactivity.

After they had turned onto the highway, Brock cleared his throat and asked: “So, Director – what’s your plan for me now?"

Coulson turned his head to look at him. “You told the court that you wanted to make up for your past mistakes. And if we want to evaluate you, having you rot in a cell isn’t going to be very informative, anyway. So we’ll send you on missions. But we’ll do it with people who can keep you in check in case you suddenly change your mind." He smiled pleasantly. “The Avengers have agreed to take you with them."

“You’re not pulling your punches", Brock replied with a surprised huff. He didn’t protest, though. It was smart, from a tactical point of view. Rogers was still mad enough at him that he would keep a close eye on Brock, and he was definitely qualified to keep him from making a break for it. It would be a good long while until anyone trusted Brock enough to go on a mission with Jemma, where he could more easily kidnap her and disappear.

Unexpectedly, Jemma chimed in. “I think it will be a good opportunity for you. If the Avengers vouch for you, nobody at S.H.I.E.L.D. can protest your return. And they are such great people!"

_She’s such an optimist. What did I ever do to deserve her?_ With a smile in Jemma’s direction, Brock replied: “You’re right, of course. And I know that I can work well with them, if they let me. I mean, Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff did quite a few mission with my STRIKE team, before..."

“Before you were sent to kill them", Coulson finished helpfully while Brock was still looking for a nicer way to put it. “That might make for a rocky start, but you’ll get over it. And you’ve also worked with Barton before, haven’t you?"

“Yeah. He joined STRIKE for some ops where we needed a really good sniper. But the last one was in 2012, before the battle of New York."

“A lot of things were different before New York", Coulson said quietly. Jemma suddenly looked uncomfortable, Brock couldn’t help but notice. He remembered hearing that Coulson had died during the battle on the Helicarrier, but had put it off as wrong intel once he’d heard about Coulson’s missions afterwards. Maybe there was more to it than he’d thought. Well, he’d soon have enough time to find out, wouldn’t he?

Coulson plastered his trademark pleasant smile back on his face and said brightly: “Anyway, back to you. As I said earlier, you will officially be working for S.H.I.E.L.D. as an independent advisor. That means your security clearance is– basically nonexistent. Nobody is allowed to talk to you about their missions or projects unless they clear it with me, and that includes Agent Simmons. You will be allowed to enter the common rooms, mess and gym between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m., but only with an escort. At night, you will stay in a cell. These rules will be revised once you’ve proven yourself. The Avengers will decide when you’re ready for your first mission. Any questions?"

“No, Sir." It was what he’d expected, after all. And anything was better than being stuck in a cell forever. But since it sounded like he wouldn’t be allowed outside for a while yet, Brock leaned back in his seat and enjoyed the view. That is, until Coulson announced that Brock wasn’t allowed to know the location of the base and would have to be blindfolded for the remainder of the journey. Brock sighed.


	6. Tests

When Jemma came to the lab, she found Fitz scowling angrily at a small, strange-looking pistol. He brightened slightly when he saw her. “Hey. How’d it go?"

“We won", Jemma exclaimed with a wide smile on her face.

Fitz’s answering smile was slightly strained. “Congratulations. I guess I’ll be seeing Rumlow much more often around here now?"

“Not really. At the moment, his security clearance is only for the public areas, and only during daytime. Still, I’ll bet he’s glad to be transferred from Vault D to a standard cell."

“And you’re also glad that you don’t have to go down to the Vault anymore", Fitz said knowingly. That place held too many memories of Ward.

Jemma nodded with a small grimace. Then she smiled again and asked: “And what about you? Any progress?"

That sent Fitz into a long rant about microprocessors and the complications one encountered when trying to reproduce alien technology. _Just like old times_, Jemma thought fondly, making sympathetic noises. _I’m glad that Coulson allowed us to keep sharing a lab, even though we have a large wet lab and an even larger workshop on base._ Thanks to the time they’d all spent on the bus together, the Director had been convinced that “FitzSimmons" were conductive to each other’s creativity, and could help solve each other’s problems. (Actually, what he had said was that their ideas were cross-fertilizing, but that sounded a bit naughty to Jemma.)

When Fitz’s tirade had died out, Jemma said: “I was a bit preoccupied the last few days, so I didn’t really pay any attention to the internal memos. Anything interesting?"

Fitz sighed. “We still haven’t found who is going after Inhumans in Europe, but the money’s on Raina. And there was another suspicious bank robbery."

“Suspicious how?"

“The witnesses don’t remember a thing, even though it’s all been caught by the security cameras."

“... huh."

“Yeah. Now that Skye’s not working on Rumlow’s confession anymore, Coulson assigned her to Operation Pantyhose. Maybe she’ll tell us more after the briefing tomorrow."

“Operation _Pantyhose_?", Jemma asked incredulously.

Fitz smirked. “That’s what I thought, too. But Coulson just made this face and said, ‘Don’t ask.’ So I guess it’s that prank war at Ops going rampant again."

“Nice to know some things survived Hydra", Jemma said dryly. Then she sighed. “I think I’ll have to schedule a meeting with Coulson soon. Some things Brock said... I might want to change some of my projects."

Now she had Fitz’s full attention. “Like what?"

“Like ditching the obviously dangerous, unstable poison I developed. Brock said it’s a torture device, and he’s right, isn’t he? Hydra would’ve loved to have something like it, which just shows that _we_ should keep our hands off it."

Fitz grimaced. “You might have a point there. But then what do you want to do instead?"

“Oh, I have a few ideas..."

  
* ∼ *

The next morning, there was a knock on Brock’s door, followed by the low sound of the electronic lock opening. Brock, who had been awake for two hours already and pacing the room restlessly, eagerly turned around. He was greeted by a fit-looking man with short hair and a few days worth of stubble who was carrying a large sports bag in one hand. As soon as he opened his mouth, Brock realized he must be British.

“Morning. I’m Lance Hunter, Coulson appointed me as your guard dog."

“Pleased to meet you, I guess", Brock replied neutrally.

“Have you had breakfast yet?"

When Brock shook his head, Hunter made a hand gesture to indicate that Brock should follow him and said: “The mess it is, then."

On their way through the building, Brock was keenly aware of the many hostile glances he attracted. It only got worse in the crowded mess. One person went so far as to drop their tray when they turned around and unexpectedly came face to face with him. Hunter seemed to find it hilarious. Once they were both sitting at a table that miraculously did not attract anyone else, he asked: “So, how does it feel to be back in the fold?"

“Oh, lots of warm and fuzzy feelings", Brock said dryly. He was used to hostile environments, and most people wouldn’t be stupid enough to bodily harm the soulmate of the famous Jemma Simmons. At least he thought so. Didn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. No need to be sloppy, after all. He was, however, missing some crucial intel for a proper risk assessment. The reason for that missing intel was sitting right in front of him.

“And how do you feel about me being here?"

The Brit grinned. “No need to be subtle, Rumlow. I bet what you really wanted to ask was, ‘Did I kill someone you loved, and will you try to knife me in the back ’cause of it?’"

“That’s one way of putting it", Brock said carefully.

“Well, Coulson made it very clear that I’m not supposed to feed you intel, so – let me just say that I’m an independent consultant, just like you." When Brock lifted an expressive eyebrow, Hunter relented: “Okay, not exactly like you, but you get my gist."

“If you’re not a proper S.H.I.E.L.D. agent... Merc?", Brock guessed.

Hunter only hummed noncommittaly, but he might as well have confirmed it. Brock nodded to himself. If Coulson wanted to give Brock a fair chance it made sense not to pair him with someone who hated his guts. The fact that he'd chosen Hunter and not, say, _Agent Carter_ told Brock a lot more about Coulson’s intentions than anything the Director had openly said to him.

“You done? Coulson asked me to take you to the gym, see if you’re still in form."

“Sure."

When they reached the locker rooms, it turned out that Hunter’s bag contained some workout clothes for Brock. They fit perfectly. Of course S.H.I.E.L.D. still knew his size, if there was one thing you could count on, then that a secret agency didn’t delete data. Inside the gym, a group of young men and women were sparring under the supervision of a senior agent, while others worked with weights or used the running track that circled the circumference of the large room. Brock knew he’d seen the instructor before and wracked his brains for a name. Woo, he finally remembered. If Brock wasn’t completely wrong, the man had been one of Maria Hill’s protégés before Hydra had stirred things up.

Hunter interrupted his thoughts. “So, I heard you were a bit malnourished recently. Let’s do some laps first, check out your stamina."

Brock couldn’t argue with that. And he did get out of breath more quickly than he should have. It rankled, especially considering the many eyes he could feel following him. Suddenly, a murmur went through the room. Instantly alert, Brock checked the exits – and almost stumbled when he saw an imposing figure standing in front of one of the doors.

Hunter whistled through his teeth. “A royal visitor", he quipped. “Think he’s here for you?"

The question was answered when Rogers spotted them and waved them over. Brock carefully schooled his features not to show any of the nerves he felt. The Avengers had agreed to help with his rehabilitation, there was no reason for Brock to be afraid of them. They were on the same side now. He only had to convince his gut of it.

“Rumlow. Agent...?", Rogers greeted them questioningly.

“Lance Hunter. Without the ‘Agent’", the Brit answered and shook the offered hand. “To what do we owe the pleasure?"

“I’m here to assess Rumlow’s suitability for accompanying us on missions. His physical suitability, anyway."

Brock swallowed the implied barb and smiled thinly. He followed Rogers over to the practice mats, where the group of junior agents stood gaping like fish. Brock made a mental note of the faces and sorted them in the internal category _Slow to recover from surprises._ Only Woo seemed unfazed. “Agents, clear the mats, please."

“There’s no need to interrupt your training", Rogers said politely. “We only need two mats or so."

As if anybody would be able to concentrate on a lecture while Captain America was beating up a former member of Hydra just a few feet away. Apparently, the instructor was more realistic than Rogers. “I’m sure they can learn more by watching you than by listening to me. Agents, I will expect a written report about the techniques you could identify and about anything that seemed new to you. So pay attention."

_Great. Just great_, Brock thought morosely. _There’s no way this is going to end well._ It didn’t help that he heard Hunter mutter something about popcorn. He didn’t let his thoughts show on his face, though, taking great care to act calm and in control. “Where d’you want me?"

Rogers looked as if he was going to say, ‘Six feet underground.’ But he, too, made an effort to be professional and pointed to the mats. “Over there. We’ll start with unarmed combat, one on one. Stay on the mats, don’t engage the audience and don’t use anything as a weapon. It stops when one of us taps out."

_And guess who that will be_, Brock sighed internally. Never in his right mind would he’ve gone up against Rogers in unarmed combat. There was a reason why he’d gone after Rogers with a big team, magnetic cuffs and a pair of stun batons, after all. Well, if the big guy wanted to test him, he had no chance but to comply.

So Brock took his position on the mats and warily watched Rogers follow him. The two slowly circled each other. With a speed that should be impossible for someone so big, Rogers aimed a hit at Brock’s chest. Brock blocked but was driven back a step anyway. When Rogers followed him, Brock ducked and tried to get in a hit from below Roger’s guard. Amazingly, it worked, but Rogers barely flinched. Instead, he kicked at Brock’s head. It just wasn’t fair how flexible this guy was. As the fight progressed, it became increasingly obvious to Brock that Rogers was pulling his punches. He’d seen the aftermath of Captain America in action – all right, the most recent incident had been two years ago, but he clearly remembered what Batroc’s men had looked like when they recovered them (or, in two cases, their bodies) from the Lemurian Star. If Rogers had really been trying to do damage, he would have already broken some bones. _Good to know he’s serious about testing me and isn’t just using it as a convenient excuse to beat me up._ However, Rogers pulling his punches didn’t mean that Brock was unhurt. He was going to have some spectacular bruises tomorrow, and he tasted blood in his mouth. Then Rogers managed to grab Brock’s arm and threw him over his shoulder. Brock hit the mats with enough force to drive the breath from his lungs and leave his head ringing. Before he had a chance to recover, a knee backed up by two hundred pounds of muscle bore down on his spine, and his arm was bent upwards in an unnatural angle. Unless you were the Hulk, this hold was unbreakable. Gasping, Brock used his free hand to tap the mat. Rogers immediately let go of him and stepped back. Only too aware of his audience, Brock forced himself to ignore the pain in his shoulder and pushed himself to his feet. He kept a watchful eye on his opponent in case he was going to go for another round. Rogers returned his gaze, frowning. Then he studied their audience, the group of junior agents and their instructor on one side of the mats, some more senior agents on the other side. It was the latter group that he addressed with the words: “I need three volunteers. Same rules as before, but I want to see Rumlow go up against a group."

One woman and two men came forward. Rogers nodded to them, then stepped off the mats and gave the sign to start. The sturdier of the two men immediately tried to circle behind Brock’s back, while the other two attacked simultaneously from the front. Brock was quite sure that the three had worked together before. Then he stopped thinking and let his reflexes take over. Block, twist, attack, duck, push the woman into the taller guy, jump over the third one’s legs as he was trying to kick his knees, use the distraction of the other two to close with his attacker and knee him in the groin, do a backwards flip to dislodge the woman who had managed to put her arms around his throat...

Brock had no idea how long they'd been going when he managed to hit the taller man hard enough that he stumbled into the group of junior agents, then sat down heavily and obviously didn’t plan to get up anytime soon. It was good timing, because Brock was getting more and more dizzy from too many hits to his head. And, to be honest, he was starting to feel out of breath. In his defence, the other two also looked a bit winded. They shared a significant look, and the woman muttered something about kangaroos. The man nodded, then both took up classical boxer’s poses, balled their fists and exploded into a flurry of movement. With surprising synchrony, they threw hooks at Brock’s face and upper body. He was forced into the defensive, barely able to get in any hits of his own. This was starting to _hurt_, and his arms were getting heavy. Suddenly, the woman started biting out short words: “Emu... Dingo... Bilby... Koala... Kookaburra..." And just when Brock thought that this was a diversion tactic, she said “Platypus!", dropped to the floor and swiped at his legs while her partner practically jumped in Brock’s face and tried to grab the arms he’d held in front of his face. In retrospect, Brock could admit that it was beautiful teamwork. In that moment, however, he tried and failed to get his legs out of the way, while his opponent managed to hold onto one of his arms. Brock overbalanced, the woman clung to one of his legs and pulled – he painfully crashed to the ground – she threw herself over his legs. The man tried to stretch Brock out to rob him of the leverage needed to get back up, but Brock twisted to get on his side and punched the man in the face. He reeled back but doggedly held onto the arm he’d caught. Brock tried to push himself up with his free arm but then the woman got a hand between his legs and did something very unfair. With a groan, Brock collapsed back to the floor, and the male agent finally managed to grab the second arm. He quickly mirrored Roger’s former position, effectively pinning Brock in place. Since he couldn’t move his arms, Brock grunted, “Yield." When the two let go, Brock allowed himself to stay down for a moment, just breathing, before he slowly pushed himself onto all fours. Fuck, he hurt everywhere.

“Not good enough", a cold voice came from somewhere above him. Brock flinched, then sat back on his haunches to at least look Rogers in the eye. The other man watched him impassively. “I remember when you could take on five men and come out victorious. Once you’re back to that level, we’ll talk again."

With that, Rogers turned to Brock’s opponents, told them “Good fight", nodded to the other agents and left. Brock wiped sweat from his forehead and tried to catch his breath as the audience scattered. Suddenly, a water bottle appeared in his field of view. Hunter.

“I didn’t think you were _that_ bad", the Brit said dryly.

Brock huffed and drained the bottle. Grudgingly, he admitted: “Rogers has a point, though. I used to be better than this. Guess that’s what happens when you don’t train properly for two years."

“Hard to find a good sparring partner when you’re on the run, huh?"

“Exactly."

Hunter studied him thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Well, I guess this is one of the things that’re okay to tell you: I got chosen as your escort because I’m not cleared for field work yet. Got injured on an op, was on medical leave for two months, now gotta get back in form. Coulson probably thought we could train together and both get something out of it."

“You heard the Captain. Seems like a training partner is exactly what I need now."

Hunter nodded, then extended a hand. Brock didn’t hesitate to take it. However, when Hunter pulled him up, the world tilted sideways and he suddenly found himself back on the mats. Brock clutched his head and swore.

“Bugger. We didn’t injure you, did we?", a concerned, female, clearly Australian voice asked.

Brock waved aside her concerns. “I’ll be fine in a minute. Most of it’s from Captain Rogers, anyway. But I gotta say, nice tactics. Did you come up with that yourselves?"

“We did", her companion, who had come over with the third man, answered. He nodded politely. “Pete Walker."

The other two introduced themselves as Leslie Anderson and Robert Hawkins. Maybe they didn’t know about Brock’s information ban, because they readily told that they had been recruited from the Australian special forces. Hawkins, who was holding a cool pack against his head, gave Brock a long look before walking over to the small fridge next to one of the entrances and getting another one for him. Brock did _not_ sigh with relief when he pressed it against his temple, okay? It was just coincidental timing of the hand motion and his breathing. Hunter did some small talk with the Australians before the latter said their goodbyes and wandered over to the weights.

“You good?"

Brock nodded cautiously and held out his free hand. This time, he got up more slowly. The world spun less, but still too much to ignore. Grudgingly, Brock admitted: “Might be a good idea to let Medical have a quick look." Head injuries could be deceptive, and it was one thing to act tough in order to save his reputation, but quite another to recklessly endanger his health. Especially now that he had a soulmate to consider.

Good luck or careful planning (probably careful planning – this was S.H.I.E.L.D., after all) meant that Medical was quite close to the gym. Even so, Hunter kept a hand on Brock’s arm, and Brock just hoped that there wouldn’t be too many witnesses. As Hunter swiped open the door and the smell of antiseptic entered his nose, Brock tensed. He hadn’t been to a hospital since breaking out of the Hydra facility (well, apart from the mobster clinic in Singapore, but let’s just say there had been other, much stronger smells there), and he was hit by rather unpleasant memories. When Hunter threw him a confused glance, Brock realized he’d stopped walking. Embarrassed, he mumbled that he was fine and purposefully stepped inside the brightly lit corridor. _Get a grip, Rumlow. It’s your first day out of the cell and you’re already making a fool of yourself._

When the doctor heard what had happened, he asked Brock about his name, the president’s name, and the current date. The last one was surprisingly difficult, but not because of the blow to his head. Hunter helpfully told the doctor that Brock had spent over a week in “the Vault" and thus might not be up to date. The white-haired man raised an eloquent eyebrow but didn’t push further. In the end, he ordered an MRI scan, for which Brock had to wait two hours. Hunter made a very put-upon face but finally settled down in the visitor’s area with a society magazine. Brock used the chance to lie down and close his eyes. If this was what happened when Rogers _trained_ with someone, they had been very lucky to all make it out of that elevator alive.

After the MRI, the doctor declared that Brock only had a mild concussion without any obvious brain damage but told him to take it easy for the next 48 hours. Hunter, who’d come back in, asked: “Does that only mean no physical activity or also no deep thinking?"

“Despite what some people believe, thinking is actually not dangerous to the brain", the doctor replied sarcastically.

Hunter nodded, then cheerfully told Brock that Coulson wanted him to take a test, too. But lunch, first. By now it was late enough that the mess was almost empty, and nobody approached them. After the events of the morning, Brock wasn’t really hungry, but Hunter cleared an enormous plate. When he was done, he lead Brock to what felt like the other side of the base. They entered a tiny conference room with a single table, four chairs and an analogue clock on the wall. On the table, there were an old-fashioned phone, a bottle of water and two glasses. Hunter called someone, then offered Brock some water. They didn’t have to wait long until an agent (one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s seemingly endless supply of suits) joined them. He was carrying a thick stack of papers.

“Mister Rumlow. Director Coulson wishes to know how firm your knowledge of our new handbook is. The first part of the test is mostly multiple-choice, checking the facts. The second part consists of case studies to see how well you can apply that knowledge to realistic situations. You will have two hours for each part. Any questions?"

_Just when I thought the day couldn’t get worse._ While Hunter made himself comfortable with a tablet in his hand, Brock started working through the stack of papers. It was grueling, to say the least. After two hours, the suit returned to collect the first half of the test. Brock hadn’t been quite finished yet. By the time the four hours were over and the agent collected the second half, Brock's water bottle was empty, and his headache had returned with a vengeance. The suit asked Brock and Hunter to wait a few minutes for the evaluation. The Brit sighed, clearly bored out of his mind, but Brock only nodded tiredly. He knew the results wouldn’t be great.

According to the clock, it was 7.13 p.m. when the door opened again and Coulson entered.

“I am severely under-impressed", Coulson started.

_Here we go_, Brock thought morosely. _Because one person per day telling me how useless I am clearly isn’t enough._

“Some of the case studies were okay-ish, but the multiple choice was disastrous. I thought I told you to study the handbook?"

“With all due respect, _Sir_, I didn’t know you wanted me to memorize the section numbers, too." Brock was too tired for this shit.

Coulson didn’t rise to the bait. “You’ll need to score at least 95% on the test before I let you leave this base. So I suggest you spend some more time with the handbook." He smiled politely at them both, then turned to leave. With one hand on the door handle, he turned his head back and said casually: “Maybe Agent Simmons would be willing to quiz you. I hear she likes studying."

Then he was gone, leaving a very perplexed Brock behind. “Carrot and the stick, huh?"

“Looks like it", Hunter agreed, then got up and stretched with a groan. “Man, I’m not made for sitting so long. Come on, let’s get out of here."

Since they had less than 45 minutes before Brock’s curfew, they quickly grabbed dinner in the mess, then almost had to run back to Brock’s new cell. (Almost. The doctor _did_ tell him to take it easy.) With a much too cheerful “See you tomorrow", Hunter locked the door behind himself and left Brock alone.

  
* ∼ *

“So, apparently, Rumlow got beat up in the gym today", Skye’s cheerful voice preceded her into the lab.

Alarmed, Jemma dropped what she was doing and came around the lab bench. “What?"

“Well, not _beat up_ beat up", Skye clarified, or at least tried to. “I mean, he wasn’t attacked or anything. I heard that Captain America came to the gym to test Rumlow’s mission readiness, and then he asked Agent Anderson and her boys to fight him."

“Oh. And how did it go?" This was definitely better than what Jemma had first feared. Having S.H.I.E.L.D. agents so embittered by what Hydra, and specifically Brock, had done to them that they openly attacked him would have been... unnerving, to say the least.

“Weeeeell", Skye started, and her smug face told Jemma that she had something up her sleeve. “Agent Woo was in the gym training some Level Ones, and he asked them for a written analysis of the fight. I took the liberty of acquiring these reports." She handed Jemma a tablet.

“You pilfered them, you mean." Jemma scanned over the text. “It sounds quite intense. But I don’t understand half of it. Too much field agent slang."

Skye grinned. “There’s one other thing I can show you." She took the tablet back, typed a little and then held it such that Jemma could see. “It’s one of the surveillance cameras from the gym. No sound, I’m afraid."

The practice mats weren’t quite in the center of the camera’s field of view, but it was still easy to spot Steve Rogers talking to Brock and Hunter. Then the Brit stepped back, while the other two got onto the mats and started attacking each other. Jemma couldn’t help but wince every time Brock had to take a hit or kick. Even Skye muttered “Ouch!" when Brock got thrown onto the mat and pinned down.

“Kinda makes you glad our strengths are more in the lab or on the computer and nobody expects us to fight like that, huh?", Skye muttered.

Jemma nodded mutely. She was glad to see Brock get up on his own. When the three Australians stepped forward and attacked all at once, she started fidgeting nervously.

“Hey, you okay?"

“I’m fine, it’s just – that reminds me a bit too much of fighting those warriors on the pyramid. Except they were even more, and there were lots of pointy weapons involved. And Brock had a gaping stomach wound at the time, so maybe not that similar after all. But you know what I mean?"

Skye nodded sympathetically. “Plus, they aren’t _really_ trying to hurt him. As far as I know, they weren’t ever anywhere near Hydra, so probably not even tempted to exact some vengeance."

“Yes. Doesn’t make it easier to watch, though."

“But he’s holding his own...", Skye started, only to stare at the screen in confusion as Anderson and Walker adopted boxer’s poses and started a whole barrage of punches to Brock’s head and upper body. “What the...?"

Anderson’s mouth was moving, but neither of the two women could read lips. Suddenly, at something that must have been a cue of some kind, Anderson went low and Walker tackled Brock from above, making him fall. It was over pretty quickly after that.

“That was unusual", Skye said in a slightly admiring tone. “Now those reports from Woo’s newbies make a lot more sense."

“Hm", Jemma replied distractedly. She was still staring at the screen. She could see Captain Rogers' face in three-quarter profile, and he did not look happy. Neither did Brock at whatever the Captain said to him. So probably not mission ready, then. At least Hunter could be counted on to be good at his job, he gave Brock some water and chatted with the Australians. There seemed to be no hard feelings between any of the five. _Good. He’s going to need some friendly faces here at S.H.I.E.L.D., or it’s going to be really tough for him._

Then Hunter tried to pull Brock up, only for her soulmate to fall down again and clutch his head. “Oh."

“That doesn’t look good", Skye agreed. As the two men left the gym, Skye typed away at the tablet, opened some other security camera feeds and explained: “They went to Medical. But I can’t get into their files."

“Rightly so", Jemma said resolutely. “Even we S.H.I.E.L.D. agents have _some_ privacy rights."

Skye had to laugh. “Yeah, keep dreaming."

Then they both sobered. “Do you think I should go and check on him tonight?"

“Sure. I mean, he _is_ your soulmate, and who else is going to do it?"

“You’re right. I just have to finish some things here, then I’ll go over. Luckily, it’s not the Vault anymore."

Skye nodded knowingly, then made to go.

“Hey, Skye?", Jemma called after her. Skye turned around questioningly. “Thanks for telling me."

Her friend smiled. “Anytime."

Jemma returned to her work, she’d promised to analyze some DNA samples Operation Pantyhose had secured in the robbed bank. Unfortunately, they all turned out to belong to witnesses. When she was done, she cleaned up the lab and made her way to the detainment area. The guard on duty greeted her politely.

“Agent Simmons. The Director informed me that you would probably be visiting." He escorted her to Brock’s cell, where he explained: “There’s an intercom next to the door. Once you’re ready to leave, tell me and I’ll let you out." With that, he swiped a card through a reader on the wall, and additionally turned an old-fashioned key in the door.

Jemma knocked before opening the door but didn’t wait for a reply because she wasn’t sure whether or not the thick door would let Brock hear her knocking. Inside, it was pitch black for a moment, before the overhead light turned on. Jemma blinked and found Brock sitting on the bed with his hand still on the light switch. He seemed confused.

“Jemma?"

Wow. His voice was even rougher than usual. Jemma blushed. “Uh, hi. I just wanted to check on you. Erm – did I wake you up?"

Brock was wearing short sleeve pajamas with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo on the chest, and he looked quite tired. She could also see a number of bruises forming on his arms and one on the side of his head. He shrugged. “Not much interesting to do in this cell. Besides", he nodded his head towards an analogue clock on the wall, “it’s half past one."

Jemma’s blush deepened. “Oh. I didn’t even check– I thought it was still around ten. I swear, time runs quicker in the labs."

“It’s okay. Thanks for coming, anyway. Don’t have many visitors." Brock smiled at her. “Any particular reason?"

“I heard about what happened in the gym today and wanted to see how you’re doing."

Groaning, Brock buried his face in his hands. “Does _everybody_ know about that?"

“Well, this is S.H.I.E.L.D.", Jemma quipped. “It would be worrying if a surprise visit by Captain America didn’t make it to the rumour mill."

“Yeah, well, he won’t be coming back for a while. At least he told me that I still had a lot of training to catch up on before I can join the Avengers on any mission."

Jemma wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard some embarrassment beneath the frustration. “You didn’t really have time to train while you were on the run from us and every other agency out there, did you?"

“No", Brock admitted.

“And then we went and poisoned you, before you got a severe stomach wound, and all that with barely any food. It’s no wonder if you’re not at the top of your game."

Brock looked at her strangely. Maybe he wasn’t used to other people defending him. “Thanks for saying that. I know Roger’s right, it’s just – I wish he'd done this whole thing a little less publicly. Well, guess I can’t begrudge the man at least some revenge, considering that he’d probably prefer to see me dead."

Jemma shifted uncomfortably. She couldn’t imagine having Steve Rogers as an enemy. That must be pretty scary. And she _knew_ that Brock deserved the Captain’s animosity for what he’d done in Hydra’s name, but still, she felt kind of bad for Brock.

“Are you all right, though? I mean – I heard you had to go to Medical."

Brock shrugged. “Doctor did an MRI, told me it was only a mild concussion without obvious brain damage. Have to take it easy for the next two days, though."

Jemma nodded. “So what will you do all day?"

A little exasperated, Brock huffed, then pointed to a thick book lying on his table. “Don’t remind me. The concussion didn’t keep Coulson from having me take a test on the S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook. I failed spectacularly. So I’ll spend the next days with my friend here and try to memorize every damn section number."

Jemma winced. “That sounds... fun."

“Actually", Brock said hesitatingly, “Coulson suggested that I could ask you to quiz me. Would that– I mean, if you have time, and I can totally understand if you don’t feel like it, but..."

“Sure", Jemma smiled at him. “I’m pretty busy during the day, but I’d be happy to visit you after dinner."

Brock seemed genuinely happy as he thanked Jemma. Then he had to suppress a yawn, and Jemma said: “I really shouldn’t keep you from your sleep, especially if the doctor said you should take it easy. So – see you tomorrow, then."

“Yeah. Good night."

As she made her way to her quarters, Jemma realized that she was very glad to have an official reason to visit Brock regularly now.

  
* ∼ *

“Good morning, Director", Jemma greeted politely as she entered the office.

“Agent Simmons, on time as always." Coulson smiled at her. “Please, take a seat. You said you wanted to talk to me about your future projects?"

Jemma nodded. She had folded her hands in her lap to prevent herself from fidgeting nervously, but the fact that she sat ramrod straight on the edge of the chair probably gave her away, anyway. “There are actually several projects that I wanted to discuss. First off, the P-304 derivative."

“The poison we used on Rumlow? Did you find out why the antidote malfunctioned?"

“No. And the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that we should stop the project completely."

Coulson had clearly not expected that. “But you already invested so much time in this project, don’t you think it’s worth to work out the last kinks and salvage it?"

Jemma bit her lip. “It’s not just the unreliable antidote, that problem really might be solvable. No, I..." She hesitated, then carefully continued: “I talked to Brock and – some of the things he said..."

“You mean he wasn’t enthusiastic about the poison that made him suffer for three days and then almost killed him? Who would have thought."

Jemma ignored Coulson’s sarcasm and ploughed on. “He said that it’s essentially a torture drug, and that Hydra would love to get its hands on something like it. And he’s right, isn’t he?"

Coulson sobered. “Yes. If you think back to our talk almost two years ago, that was exactly the reason this wasn’t our first choice. Originally, we wanted to find a better sedative."

“Yes. And in retrospect, I think I shouldn’t have let myself be discouraged so much by the literature and our previous tests. I should have insisted on looking for ways to make a sedative that satisfies all our criteria. But..." Jemma sighed and averted her eyes. “It was so shortly after the Hydra uprising that everyone, myself included, was looking for quick solutions, and the poison seemed to be just that. And if I’m really, really honest with myself, I made that poison for a specific person."

“Ward?", Coulson guessed.

Jemma felt her cheeks heat but nodded.

“I’m afraid we were all a bit unreasonable during that time. And I know that Ward is still a sore subject with a number of my agents. Not that I can blame them." The Director sighed. “So what are you suggesting? To destroy the already existing P-304 stock and make sure to lock away the formula where nobody, especially not Hydra, can find it?"

“Yes. And to compensate the loss of this tool, I want to renew my efforts to find a vaporizable sedative that’s stable and has a large error margin concerning the amount that’s needed to sedate but doesn’t induce long-lasting damage."

Coulson studied her for a moment. “How high do you rate your chance of success?"

“Eighty percent, at least. Depends on how much time I can devote to this project. But with the new hires in the science department, I guess I will no longer be needed for urgent mission-related analyses on a daily basis."

“That was my intention", Coulson smiled. “It’s high time that S.H.I.E.L.D. returns to investing in the fundamental research we used to be so good at. After all, we have to keep one step ahead of our enemies."

Now it was Jemma’s turn to sigh. “From what Fitz tells me, it seems that Hydra is still making progress in robotics and weapons design. I have no idea how they’re doing it, considering they have the Avengers _and_ S.H.I.E.L.D. on their tail."

“It’s probably a last-ditch effort before we stop them once and for all. We’re making good progress. Anyway, what were the other things you wanted to talk about?"

“Only one other thing, actually. I’ve... never been invested in the topic that much, and I guess it didn’t come up with us scientists as it would with the field agents, but... I would like to look into soulbond biology."

Coulson studied her intently. “Are you afraid of something happening to Rumlow once I let him back into the field?"

“No. I mean, yes, I’m always afraid of something happening to any of you when you go on a mission. But I thought – this is the twenty-first century. We have eradicated smallpox, we can treat quite a few forms of cancer, and Doctor Cho even manages to regrow whole parts of the body. I don’t see why bond withdrawal should be the only thing that cannot be cured by science."

“Not the _only_ thing. There’s still a lot of people dying from cancer, and we can’t cure Alzheimer's, or really quite a number of other diseases."

Jemma sent him an arch look. “Are you trying to discourage me?"

“No. Just testing how serious you are and which evidence you have that pursuing this topic will actually lead to useful results."

“I have studied the current literature. People are making progress in understanding which hormones are responsible, and with the advent of faster gene sequencing techniques it’s getting easier to look for the origin of the specific hormonal fingerprint of a bonded pair. I think the time has come to solve this puzzle."

“Well, S.H.I.E.L.D. has lost a number of good agents due to bond withdrawal over the years. I would certainly be happy if I could prevent this in the future. So if you think it’s realistic, go for it."

Jemma felt a huge weight lift off her chest. “Thank you, Director. Then I shall get started right away."

Jemma’s next stop was Skye’s office. After Hydra had revealed itself, S.H.I.E.L.D. had become even more paranoid about guarding its secrets than before, which was why the different parts of the science division’s digital archives were now access controlled individually. If she wanted to find out about S.H.I.E.L.D.’s previous research into soulbond biology, Jemma needed to get the access code – which was handed out by the head admin, Skye.

Unfortunately, Skye wasn’t there, and her office door locked. _Plan B, then._ Jemma returned to her lab. If she couldn’t get access to other people’s research, she would start with her own. Years ago, in 2010, Jemma had done a complete sequencing of her own genome as part of a project at the Academy. Back then, that had been a big thing – the Human Genome Project had needed fifteen years, from 1990 to 2005, to determine the DNA sequence of the entire human genome. Nowadays, techniques had markedly improved, and it would hopefully only take her a few weeks to analyze a new sample. Or maybe it would be even better to send the material to an external lab specializing in DNA sequencing, the equipment was a bit expensive even for S.H.I.E.L.D.’s standards. Jemma wondered if she would find any differences compared to her old results. But by what mechanism should meeting a soulmate change DNA?

Deep in thought, Jemma only muttered a distracted “Hi Fitz" on the way to her lab bench. It took her almost half an hour until she realized that Fitz wasn’t in the room with her. This was unusual, to say the least. Letting their conversation from the night before replay in her head, Jemma came to the conclusion that Fitz had maybe been called to attend that briefing about operation Pantyhose, which was likely also where Skye’d disappeared to. With that puzzle solved, Jemma returned to her work.

“That traitorous bastard!" Fitz’s angry words preceded him into the lab. It was almost dinner time, and Jemma was just cleaning up her lab bench. Her motions stopped, and she looked at Fitz questioningly. The Scotsman was scowling, his hands moving animatedly.

“I swear, that was the last time someone convinced me to go into the field. Seriously, I think I’m cursed. I mean, last time _you_ told me, ‘Come on, Fitz, it will be just like old times, don’t you want to try it one more time?’ we plane-crashed on a deserted island. Now _Coulson_ says, ‘Our intel suggests that they might have had Chitauri technology in one of the safe deposit boxes, and you’re the most qualified to check for remaining energy signatures. Please, Agent Fitz, accompany us. I assure you it’s completely safe.’ And do you know what happened?"

Jemma shook her head no, while trying hard to keep from giggling because of Fitz’s bad imitations of both her and Coulson’s voices. Fitz would probably not appreciate laughter right now.

“Well, I did find traces of Chitauri materials in the bank. And then May discovered some evidence that pointed to a warehouse close by, so Coulson told the whole team to check it out, me included, and guess who was in the warehouse?"

Judging by Fitz’s mood, there was only one possible person he could be talking about. “Ward?"

“And his goons, yes. That backstabbing bastard, that, that, murderous asshole, that..." Fitz went on to curse Ward in a variety of languages, leaving Jemma to marvel at the vocabulary he’d acquired over the last two years. She suspected Hunter'd had a hand in that. When he had finally blown off some steam, Fitz smirked unexpectedly.

“But I bet he didn’t count on being busted by S.H.I.E.L.D. He was just about to load the Chitauri tech into a van and disappear when we barged in, and we almost managed to catch him. Got some of his minions, at least. And the tech, of course", he added, lifting a metal case that he’d been carrying.

“That’s something, I suppose", Jemma commented. “Although I would have been happier if you’d managed to stop him once and for all."

“Me too, Jemma, me too."

Fitz sighed and started unpacking the case. Jemma continued cleaning her work space. After several minutes of companionable silence, Fitz said: “There’s one good thing, at least. My headache’s gone. Seems like all I needed was to get out of this bunker for once and catch some fresh air."

“Maybe all that fresh air on the island corrupted you", Jemma joked.

“Hey, do you think I can get a S.H.I.E.L.D. doc to prescribe me regular recreation on a tropical island? I could start a little project on the side, see if I can find out how exactly the macaques we discovered are related to the other species on the neighbouring islands..."

Jemma smiled fondly as she listened to her friend’s chatter. She was _so_ glad that Fitz had bounced back from the low after his brain injuries. It had killed her to see him struggling for words, to see him so frustrated because he knew exactly what was happening to him and was powerless to stop it. If it hadn’t been for all the work that had come up to prepare the revision of S.H.I.E.L.D. by the U.N., she might have actually asked Coulson to assign her to a project that would get her out of the lab. In retrospect, she felt ashamed at her own cowardice. It was good that she’d stayed, though. It had helped Fitz in his recovery, and it had helped her come to terms with what had happened. (Also, to be completely honest, she probably wouldn’t have agreed to seeing one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s therapists if she hadn’t been forced to interact with Fitz on a daily basis. And those talks had _really_ helped her cope with her feelings toward Ward and Fitz, and S.H.I.E.L.D. in general.)

After she and Fitz had gone to the mess together, Jemma excused herself to go and visit Brock. This time, he was awake and waiting for her. The bruises had fully formed now, making him look rather intimidating. He still smiled at her, though.

“Jemma. Glad you could make it."

“I promised, didn’t I?" Jemma smiled back at him. “How was your day?"

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to ask. Brock sighed. “Mind-numbingly boring. I wasn’t allowed in the gym today because of my head, so Hunter collected me for the meals, and that was it. Spent the rest of my time reading this." He waved the thick S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook. Then he frowned. “Do you know Hunter well?"

“Depends on your definition of _well_. But he spent quite some time with Fitz when Fitz was recuperating, so I also got to see him a lot."

“He seemed really pissed off today. I was wondering if that was something I did, or..."

Jemma laughed. “No, don’t worry. I know exactly what was wrong with him. The rest of his team went on a mission today, and he had to stay because he’s not cleared for the field yet. I think he’s as bored as you are."

“That’s good. I’d hate to alienate the only person besides you who’s been nice to me so far." Brock smiled ruefully. “Not that I don’t know why that’s the case."

“Well, if you want to be less bored, I guess we better make sure you pass Coulson’s test as soon as possible. Want me to quiz you?"

The evening passed quickly. Jemma actually thought that Brock was doing pretty well, considering that the book had over eight hundred pages. She had to be careful not to make the same kind of mistake as the specialists who thought scientists were helpless in a fight, and just assume every specialist was a dumb brute.

“Jemma? Are you listening?"

Jemma blushed. “Uh, sorry, what?"

“Where did you just go?", Brock asked teasingly.

“Your brain. Um. That came out wrong."

Brock laughed. “Did you just realize I’m not just brainless muscle?"

The blush deepened. “I never thought that. You were Commander of an elite team, after all. But I just noted that you’re really good at memorizing facts, and then I realized that planning an op involves keeping track of lots of details. So it makes sense, really."

“Glad to see we agree, there. Now – let’s get back to the book?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Hunter's not too OOC. I haven't watched any AoS episodes after the season 1 finale, so Hunter's based entirely on how he's portrayed in other fanfics I've read. If that bothers you, just pretend he's an OC :-).


	7. Ducklings and a date

The next few weeks raced for Jemma, who was always full of enthusiasm and bursting with ideas when starting a new project, and dragged like molasses for Brock, whose only breaks from studying the handbook or training with Hunter were Jemma’s after-dinner visits. It was like being back in Basic. Worse, actually, because back then he’d at least had his fellow recruits to commiserate.

On the upside, Brock could see the results of his training. He could run more laps before being out of breath, could lift heavier weights, and his reaction times were back to his old standard. Sparring with Hunter was actually kind of fun, not only because of the Brit’s dry humour, but also because his fighting was free-style enough that it remained challenging. When they were between missions, the three Australians often joined in, providing Brock with some much-needed practice against several opponents. Five, Rogers had said. Well, Brock only hoped that it wouldn’t be the Aussies, Hunter and Rogers, because he could train until hell froze over before winning against _that_ group. The three Australians alone, though – that got close to a fifty/fifty chance, now.

One evening in the fifth week, Jemma was particularly cheerful. Brock couldn’t help but be infected by her smile, despite the dull ache in his muscles from the day’s training with Hunter. Amused, he asked: “Are you allowed to tell me why you’re in such a good mood, or is that classified?"

Jemma blushed. “Oh. It’s about one of my research projects, I’m not sure if... On the other hand, I don’t think it’s that sensitive, so maybe it would be alright to tell you."

“You don’t have to. I don’t want you to get in trouble with Coulson. And I’m pretty sure this room is bugged", Brock answered, raising his voice slightly at the last words and looking pointedly to the small air vent in the ceiling that he’d deduced contained a hidden camera.

Jemma smiled at him. “I’m sure I will be able to tell you eventually. But there’s actually another reason why I’m in a good mood. I think you’re ready to be tested on the handbook."

Brock felt so relieved at the prospect of finally getting rid of this arduous task, some of it must have shown on his face, because Jemma laughed quietly.

“Yes, I thought you might be happy about it, too. Coulson agreed to have you take the test tomorrow."

“Tomorrow? Then I guess we should do some last-minute studying, hm?"

Jemma agreed and put him through one last round of in-depth questioning. At the end of it, she told him that she was very satisfied and wished him luck for the next day. Brock watched her go with a slight feeling of loss. Once he’d passed the test and no longer needed to be quizzed, would she keep visiting him?

On the next day, Hunter accompanied him to the same office he’d taken the test in the first time. The stack of paper was already waiting for him. Now that Brock knew what to expect, the test was a lot less scary. It was still tiring, though.

Coulson came in just before twelve, smiling his trademark bland smile. “Congratulations. Ninety-eight percent, you passed. Now, under the condition that you actually _stick_ to these rules, I will revoke my order to have you escorted. Only between eight and eight, of course, and in the public areas."

“Of course", Brock murmured, too glad to be rid of the need to study that damned handbook to care about much else.

“It’s quite convenient timing, actually, because Medical just informed me that Hunter is cleared for field work now, and..."

“Yes!", the Brit cheered loudly from his place by the door. “Coulson, you save my life. I’ve been boring my nuts off."

Amused, Brock shook his head. Privately, he was a bit disappointed to lose the man who had been his constant companion in the last five weeks. The prospect of having to sit in the mess alone wasn’t very appealing. He couldn’t begrudge Hunter the joy of being allowed to _do something_, though. He was longing for it himself, even though in his case it would probably mean being supervised by a bunch of suspicious Avengers.

Since the new rules were going to be effective from the next day, Hunter and Brock still spent the day together, sharing meals and training in the afternoon. When the Brit escorted Brock to his cell after dinner, Brock hesitated at his door.

“So, um, thank you, I guess. For being more than a prison warden."

Hunter batted his eyes. “Suffering from Stockholm syndrome, are you?"

“Well, you saved me from going stir-crazy, and training by myself definitely wouldn’t have been as effective as training with you. So, if you’re ever bored between missions... I’ll probably be here." Brock gave him a little self-deprecating smile.

Hunter cocked his head and studied him thoughtfully. He didn’t seem too revulsed by the idea, at least. “I’ll consider it. See you around, then. And, Rumlow – good luck with Captain America."

Brock could have done without that reminder, and Hunter’s evil smirk told him he’d done that on purpose. He sighed. One test done, one to go. His first action on entering his cell was to chuck the handbook in the deepest corner under his bed, where he’d hopefully never have to retrieve it from. Then he sat down on his bed and wondered if Jemma would come to visit that evening. He was disappointed. Shortly after nine, the guard knocked on his door and told him that Jemma had called to let him know that she was tied up with some urgent experiments that couldn’t be interrupted. _I should ask Coulson if I can get a library card_, Brock thought morosely as he went to bed shortly after.

On the next day, Brock realised how much pull Hunter had in the new S.H.I.E.L.D. despite his status as a contractor. Of course he’d known that the man was popular – it was hard to miss with all the people greeting him in the mess or in the hallways. But Brock hadn’t been aware that some of that popularity had served as a buffer for _him_. Already on his way to breakfast, he noticed more hostile glances than previously. In the mess, a stone-faced agent who was in line in front of Brock heaped all remaining bagels and slices of toast on his plate, constructing an impressive pile that almost collapsed when he tried to move it. Judging by the surreptitious glances the man threw him, Brock was fairly sure he’d emptied the plates on purpose. If he thought such a trivial insult could provoke a reaction from a former STRIKE Commander, he was wrong. Brock politely smiled at the staff and waited patiently until they brought some new food. The incident did, however, set the tone for the rest of the day. There was nobody in the gym that Brock knew, and all the agents who were present gave him a wide berth. _I'll have to find some new training partners. Otherwise, I’ll never fulfill Roger’s condition of beating five people simultaneously._ For lunch, Brock only grabbed a sandwich and some fruit to eat in his cell, where he was at least undisturbed. In the afternoon, he busied himself with making a list of all the moves that he could come up with that were useful against multiple opponents. At dinner, he noticed only too well that nobody sat at his table, and that all people at neighbouring tables made sure to keep him in their sights. Brock kept his face expressionless, ate quickly, and returned to his cell. He had _known_ that trying for a second chance at S.H.I.E.L.D. would be hard, and he would get over it. He only wished the improvements would come a bit more quickly.

Just before ten, when Brock was already debating going to sleep out of sheer boredom, there was a knock at his door. It was Jemma. Brock greeted his soulmate with a relieved smile.

“Jemma! You save my life."

That caused a rare expression to cross her pretty face: confusion. Quickly followed by alarm. “Why? Are you hurt?"

Brock had to laugh. “Sorry, no, I meant figuratively. Hunter is cleared for active duty again, and I’ve just had an incredibly boring day."

“Oh. Oh, right", she then said with dawning understanding. “You passed the test, didn’t you? There was a memo today that said you didn’t need an escort anymore. Oh, I’m sorry, I completely forgot to ask you about it yesterday."

Jemma seemed genuinely distraught. Brock shrugged. “Hey, it’s no big deal. You were busy, I know how you scientists get." With a teasing grin, he added: “Also, there was no way I could fail, not with you as a teacher."

Jemma blushed. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Mister, let’s get that straight right away."

Brock laughed quietly. Then he sighed. “The good part is that I can stop reading that blasted handbook. The bad part is that it means I don’t have anything to do most of the day."

Jemma blinked at him. “What do you mean?"

“Well, I can’t spend more than a few hours in the gym each day, the mess is full of people who’d rather I’m not there, and I’m not really allowed to go anywhere else."

“That leaves you with rather limited options, I agree."

“I don’t really have a direct way to contact Coulson, could you maybe ask him if I can at least get some books or something? I get that they don’t trust me with anything electronic, but I’m sure even May would agree that a book can’t do any harm."

“Oh, certainly", Jemma promised. “And for tonight... how about a card game?"

Now it was Brock’s turn to be surprised. “You play card games?"

“I was a kid once", Jemma said defensively. Then she amended: “And sometimes it’s nice to pass the time when there’s a long experiment running and you’re too tired to think about work."

“Fair enough."

“However, I don’t have one with me right now. Give me five minutes, I’ll go and get one."

Jemma was true to her word, which meant that the evening became much more pleasant than the rest of the day had been. It was only a short respite, though, because the next morning saw a return of his new routine of lonely activities interspersed with random hostility. Over the course of the next week, Brock heard five different versions of “Hydra scum!" muttered in the hallway that were clearly aimed at him. There was some passive-agressive behaviour in the mess and the gym, which was tiring, but nothing he couldn’t handle. To his great relief, Jemma did manage to acquire some books for him, which made his free time infinitely more entertaining. His soulmate still visited him almost every evening, which was just about the only thing he looked forward to in his day. And wasn’t that depressing. He’d never thought he would become so dependent on another person. _It’s only temporary_, he reassured himself. _As soon as I pass Roger’s test and can go back on missions, things will get better._

A big step in the right direction occurred seven days after his successful quiz, when Brock stumbled upon a solution for his training problem.

Brock knew something was different the moment he entered the gym. It didn’t take him long to find out what it was: Apart from him, only Woo and his ducklings (sorry, junior agents) occupied the large room. One glance, and Brock knew that the group of young recruits had been replaced by a bunch of fresh faces. And dear God, didn’t they make Brock feel old. Of course he knew that S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited from armed forces, police forces, and some independent groups from all over the world, and that the agency only picked up the best of the best. Looking at this group, however, he wondered if Coulson had snatched them out of primary school. As Brock started running his laps, he kept half an eye on the group, and noticed that they didn’t just look like school kids, they behaved like them, too. None of them had given him more than a perfunctory glance, even though he should register as a possibile threat to anyone with even the slightest self-dense training. He didn’t envy Woo his job. Lifting weights half an hour later, Brock was watching with morbid fascination how Woo paired off his students and told them to spar. Judging by the overconfident expressions of some of the students and the way they fooled around instead of listening to their instructor, it was only a matter of time until someone got hurt.

They managed a whole fifteen minutes, then a tall, gangly young man misstepped and went down with a surprised scream as he twisted his ankle. His opponent, a much shorter young woman, had been about to tackle him before he went down. Since he wasn’t where she’d expected him to be, she, too, overbalanced and landed on top of him. From the sound of things, they managed to knock their heads together quite forcefully, and blood spurted from the young woman’s nose. Brock slowly let the weights slide back into their resting positions, fighting to keep his face neutral. He would _not_ make any friends by laughing at incompetent junior agents.

“Dubois! Suarez! What on earth are you doing?" Woo looked as if he was seriously questioning his life choices just about now. He hurried over to the two downed agents and shook his head at them. “I told you to do some light sparring to warm up, not to knock each other unconscious."

He pinched his nose. “Well, there’s no way around it. Head injuries have to be checked by Medical. And since none of you really know your way around the base yet, I guess I’ll have to take you. The rest of you–"

As Woo seemed to debate if he could risk letting the others continue training without supervision, Brock slowly made his way over to the practice mats. Seeing as he was trying to get back into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s good graces, helping their junior agents not to get killed on their first mission sounded like a good plan. And it wasn’t like he had any other pressing appointments.

“Want me to keep an eye on them?"

Woo clearly hadn’t expected the offer. He gave Brock a sharp look, then probably came to the same conclusion as Brock had: If the kids survived Brock, they would be happy to have Woo back and might actually show some respect. Woo grinned evilly, an expression that was gone so fast everybody but Brock had probably missed it.

“That’s an excellent idea. Thanks, Rumlow. Agents, while I’m escorting Dubois and Suarez to Medical, you will keep training under the instruction of Agent Rumlow."

This was the first time in two years someone had called him Agent Rumlow. It still felt surprisingly right. Well, the ducklings probably hadn’t heard his name before, so they wouldn’t understand the significance. And it would definitely benefit his authority not to be called Private Consultant Rumlow. While these thoughts ran through his head, Brock noted that one of the recruits looked very surprised and slightly nervous upon hearing his name. _Huh. So maybe one of them did hear about me before._ That gave him an idea.

Brock straightened up, slipping back into command mode easily. He had lived and breathed being a Commander for eight years, it wasn’t something you easily forgot.

“Agents! Who of you can tell me what just went wrong?"

Embarrassed silence, while Woo escorted the two injured agents out of the room. Brock scowled at the group. “Rule number one: Always be aware of what’s happening around you! You never know who might be sneaking up on you. Now, coming back to Dubois and Suarez: They both got injured because they lost their balance. So before I let you go on sparring, I want to see if you have the same problem. Let’s time who can stand on one leg the longest." Brock picked up a stop watch that was lying next to some papers on a low table and held it in the air. “Starting from – now."

As he’d expected, nobody protested, even though the one recruit still looked decidedly uncomfortable. Brock slowly started walking around the group, calling out the time in thirty second intervals. On his way, he passed the small first-aid area that contained a fridge with cool packs as well as a table with a few packets of band-aids and some simple dressing material. Conveniently, it was behind the backs of the recruits. Brock quickly pocketed a pair of bandage scissors. As he came back to the front of the group, Brock declared: “Two minutes and nobody’s fallen over, let’s make it a bit more challenging. Close your eyes."

They all obeyed, but the suspicious one had tensed even further. Brock silently passed behind the group until he reached the young woman. With two quick steps, he’d reached her, wrapped an arm around her upper body and used the other hand to press the opened scissors against her throat. The agent’s eyes flew open, and she froze completely in his hold. The other recruits hadn’t noticed anything, they still obediently kept their eyes closed.

“Now, Agent, what’s your name?", Brock asked quietly.

“Connelly", she rasped.

“Agent Connelly. Who did you work for before coming to S.H.I.E.L.D.? Let me guess – FBI or CIA?"

“FBI." She was clearly still reeling from the unexpected attack, or she wouldn't have told him that. Calling for help would have been a good alternative course of action.

“Hm. And did you, by any chance, work on Hydra-related cases?"

“Yes", she practically squeaked.

“Ah. So what is it you think you know?"

Brock could see the moment Connelly got her fear under control and her head back into gear. Her expression became defiant, her back straightened almost imperceptively. Loudly, she said: “You’re Hydra."

At that, the other recruits finally opened their eyes and turned towards the pair. As soon as they saw the scissors at Connelly’s throat, they all looked alarmed, but nobody seemed sure what to do. Brock smiled nastily.

“Now, if that's the case, I’m probably undercover, ain’t I?" Nobody dared to answer. “In which case _you_ have just blown said cover. Luckily, there’s no one else in this gym to hear you, so all I have to do is kill you all."

A few faces visibly blanched. Others started looking around, probably searching either for weapons or the nearest exit. _Good._

“I know what you’re thinking: How many of you can I kill before you manage to call for help? Well, if you all run into opposite directions and you’re fast runners, some of you might make it. But as soon as one of you takes off, I’ll have to kill Connelly, here, in order to go after them. So the question is: Are you willing to sacrifice your team mate? Today’s your first day, so you don’t really know each other well. That makes the decision easier, doesn’t it?"

Anger started to seep in next to the fear. Brock had hoped for that. After all, this wasn’t really a bunch of schoolkids. And then, a stocky young man surprised him by taking a step forward and fearlessly exclaiming: “Bullshit!"

The others looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. Brock only raised an eyebrow sarcastically.

“You used to be Hydra, but you’re not anymore. You won a soulmate appeal, and S.H.I.E.L.D. has taken you back on as a consultant. You’re just trying to scare us."

At that, Brock surprised himself by letting out a throaty laugh. “Oh, very good. At least one of you has read the recent memos. That’s rule number two, by the way: Before you go into a new situation, always make sure to get all the available information."

Brock released Agent Connelly and stepped away from her. She quickly turned around and glared at him. “Why did you do that?"

“Usually, I’d make you all write an essay about what you learned today. But since I’m not really your instructor –" Brock shrugged, then counted on his fingers: “One, you’re working for S.H.I.E.L.D. now. I don’t know what you did before, and I don’t particularly care, but S.H.I.E.L.D. is a dangerous place. You all want to become field agents, so people will try to kill you on a regular basis. You better start acting like it, or your career will be very short indeed. Two, if you think you have intel that your colleagues don’t, fucking _talk to them_. It could mean the difference between life and death one day. Also, it prevents you from jumping to wrong conclusions. Three, I just told you the first rule was to be aware of your surroundings, and still none of you realized I was holding a blade to Connelly’s throat right next to you. Do I have to go on?"

Contritely, the recruits shook their heads. Brock allowed his expression to soften slightly. “Now, as I said, this is S.H.I.E.L.D. We don’t have any drill sergeants here. I’m not trying to humiliate you. But I watched you with Woo, and at least some of you clearly didn’t take this training seriously. I’ve been with S.H.I.E.L.D. for a long time, and I’ve lost a lot of team members. I don’t want you to lose any friends already on your first mission. So I recommend that you take Woo’s advice seriously, and if you find that you can’t stomach the danger of this job, rather man up and quit than let yourselves get killed unnecessarily."

His little speech was met with an uncomfortable silence. As Brock let his eyes wander from face to face, some of them were unable to meet his gaze. _Well, I obviously achieved_ something. _Let’s hope I didn’t just make a bunch of new enemies._

Luckily, Brock could see Woo coming down the corridor from Medical. With an ironic smile, he declared: “Well, playtime’s over, your instructor’s back. Think about what I said."

With that, Brock grabbed his towel, turned around and walked towards the exit. As he passed Woo, he nodded at the other agent and said: “I hope I didn’t break them too badly. But if any of them need to talk about it, feel free to send them to my cell."

He felt Woo’s surprised eyes on his back as he exited the room. Brock showered quickly, then went to have an early lunch. He wasn’t really _avoiding_ the more crowded meal times, it was more that – well, it was awkward for everybody when people decided rather to eat while standing (and, in one spectacular case, spill their soup all over the floor) rather than having to share a table with him.

Since it was a Friday, and Jemma always met with her friends on these evenings, Brock didn’t have any plans for the rest of the day. God, he was bored. And boredom often leads to thinking, which can quickly spiral into brooding. By the time Brock went to bed, he’d gone over the day’s events about a thousand times, and almost managed to convince himself that Woo and/or the ducklings were going to report him to Coulson. _Shit, what was I thinking, threatening an agent with a blade? That sorta thing was fine when I was a trusted high-ranking officer and testing STRIKE candidates. But now I'm on fucking probation, I should be glad I'm even allowed to set foot in the gym. Shit, shit, shit. Coulson's going to go bonkers. God, I hope he's not gonna put me back in that damn Vault again._

  
* ∼ *

Friday evenings had become something of a routine as soon as the team no longer lived on the Bus together. Mostly, it was just Fitz, Skye, and Jemma, since Coulson and May were much too busy (and, honestly, too senior ranking) to allow themselves the sillyness the three younger agents liked to indulge in. Trip joined in, though, whenever he was at the Playground, and so did Hunter. Sometimes, Mack joined them if he liked the movie they wanted to watch. Tonight, however, the three friends had the small common room to themselves.

“So, I checked my e-mails before coming over, and there was a memo that Magnusson was transferred to Denmark today", Skye remarked casually as she turned on the microwave to make popcorn.

“Already? I thought the Spanish wanted to question him first", Fitz asked.

“They did. He was in their custody for more than two weeks."

“That long?"

Skye took the popcorn bag out of the microwave and turned around to face her friends. “Well, you might not have noticed in your happy little science bubble, but our island adventure happened more than seven weeks ago."

“Seven weeks...", Jemma murmured disbelievingly.

“Yup. And I have to admit, I’m a little surprised by how little has happened in the meantime", Skye said teasingly.

Fitz was indignant. “Little? You mean apart from the fact that we helped to remove a broken Globetrotter from a tropical island that eats electronics for breakfast?"

“No, I meant..."

“Or that we relieved Hydra of some dangerous Chitauri tech?"

“Yes, but..."

“_And_ we ran into Grant Ward."

At that, Skye quieted and made an unhappy face. “Ugh, I was planning to forget that. No, what I meant was that Jemma still hasn’t had a real date with her soulmate."

“Oh." Now it was Fitz’s turn to look uncomfortable. Even though he’d told Jemma that he’d come to accept that she would never requite his feelings, it was obviously still hard for him to hear her talk about her romantic interests.

Jemma felt similarly awkward. “Well, I’m not going to have any intimate conversations with him while there’s a security camera watching us. Which rules out both the common rooms and his cell. And since he’s not allowed in my quarters, I will have to wait until Coulson allows him to have a normal room."

“Yes, that does put a damper on things", Skye commiserated. “And Coulson will only give the okay once Rumlow’s going on missions with the Avengers?"

“Exactly. But to do that, Brock first has to pass Captain Rogers' tests. Which, frankly, is a pretty scary thought."

“You’re not accusing Captain America of tampering with the test, though, are you?" While Fitz’s enthusiasm for the American idol was nowhere near Coulson’s, he did have a soft spot for the old-fashioned super hero.

Jemma sighed. They’d had this conversation a few times. “No, Fitz, I’m not. All I’m saying is that it’s very difficult to beat five people in a hand-to-hand fight, _especially_ if you don’t even have _one_ person that you could train with."

“So he still hasn’t made any friends?", Skye asked sympathetically.

“Well, he got along with Hunter quite well, but you know he’s off to Nicaragua. And he does train with the Australian trio when they’re here, but they’ve been assigned to a case in Paris two weeks ago. Apart from that..." She shrugged. “Can you blame the people who lost friends in the Triskelion or the Helicarriers for being angry at him? I can’t, because I’m still angry at – you know who. And I know that Brock doesn’t blame them, either. He’s not stupid, that much I can definitely say by now, so I suppose he knew what he was getting into."

“Huh. But what about you? How are you coping?"

Jemma shrugged. “I would say not much has changed for me, don’t you agree? I’m still doing my research, I meet you once a week, I occasionally help with current missions. Okay, if I hadn’t found Brock, I probably wouldn’t be studying soulmate biology now. But honestly, I’m glad I’m doing it. Did I tell you how many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents have died due to bond withdrawal?"

“Several times, Jemma", Fitz replied with an eye roll.

“And I’m still appalled! It’s not just a problem for people in high-risk jobs like ours. I mean, I can understand that someone might not want to keep living once their soulmate is dead, especially if they’re elderly and have lived a full life. But imagine a family father dying in a car crash, and the kids knowing that they will lose their mum in a few weeks, too, even though she wasn’t even in the car!"

Skye shuddered. “That must be horrible."

“Yes. And, just think about the sheer numbers: there are almost forty thousand yearly traffic deaths in the US alone. Since roughly one percent of the population has a soulmark, and about half of those are bonded, that makes 200 dead bonded soulmates from traffic accidents alone! I looked at the WHO data – there are between six and seven thousand deaths due to bond withdrawal per year in the US, that’s close to the number of deaths due to HIV."

“You _really_ got invested in this topic." Skye sounded surprised.

“Once you’re affected by it, it suddenly gets much more acute", Fitz remarked quietly. He and Jemma shared a significant look. Jemma knew about Fitz’s soulmark, the one he’d gotten while drunk and didn’t know who he shared it with, but Skye didn’t.

The hacker frowned. “But you’re not the first one who studies soulbonds, right?"

“No, of course not. Lots of people did research on this topic, and it recently got really hot as part of the 100,000 Genomes Project."

“The what now?"

“It’s a UK government project that’s sequencing whole genomes from National Health Service patients. The aim was to link specific genes to rare diseases, some common types of cancer and the like. And among the one hundred thousand participants, almost two percent had a soulmark."

“So they, what – found a soulmate-gene?", Skye asked skeptically.

Jemma grimaced. “I’m not quite sure. The sequencing was performed by a company set up by the government for just this purpose, and it took almost five years to process all the samples. The data has only been handed over to the science community half a year ago, and up to now, nobody has published anything. But there will be a conference on soulbond biology in Warsaw in January, which I hope Coulson will let me attend."

“Us", Fitz interrupted decisively. “I may not be a wiz in biology like you are, but four ears hear more than two, and I’m sure they will have at least some parallel sessions. It sounds like a pretty big affair."

Jemma smiled at him happily. “Oh Fitz, that would be great! We haven’t gone to a conference together in ages. It will be just like our Academy days."

Skye shook her head at the pair and plonked herself down on the couch. “Right, talking about Academy days: Top Gun or Police Academy?"

  
* ∼ *

When there was a knock on his door the next morning, Brock half expected a squad of armed guards. Instead, it was Woo.

“Morning, Rumlow. Mind if I come in?"

Brock hid his surprise and stepped aside. “Morning, Woo. What can I do for you?"

The other agent looked slightly uncomfortable. “It’s no secret that I’m good at training people, but not that good at inspiring instant respect. Whatever you did yesterday – and I heard something about scissors that I will just pretend I don’t know anything about – had quite an impact on the recruits. So I thought – would you like to assist me in training this group?"

That was _not_ what Brock had expected. He blinked at Woo in surprise. “Erm."

“I know most agents hate training the newbies", Woo said, obviously misinterpreting Brock’s reaction. “So if you don’t want to, you can just say it."

“No no, that’s fine. I’m so bored I’d probably agree to mend uniforms if you asked me to. I just thought – did you clear that idea with Coulson? I can’t imagine him wanting me anywhere near young, impressionable new agents. In case I turn them all into Hydra moles."

Woo huffed. “I won’t leave you alone with them, Rumlow, I think I'd notice if you tried to indoctrinate them. And no, I didn’t talk to Coulson. Sometimes, it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, don’t you think?"

_Well, you won’t end up in the Vault if Coulson’s unhappy_, Brock thought sardonically. Out loud, he only said: “There’s one thing I have to take into account, though. Coulson wants me to pass Captain Rogers’ hand-to-hand test. You were there for the last one, you saw how it went."

Woo nodded with a carefully neutral face.

Brock sighed. “Well, Rogers wants me to be able to hold my own against five opponents. Only problem is, apart from Walker, Anderson and Hawkins, nobody wants to spar with me, and those three haven’t been around for a while now."

“So as payment for your help, you want to spar with the recruits?"

“They want to become field agents, so I assume they aren’t all just pencil pushers. Some of them must be competent at hand-to-hand, right? I won’t force anybody, but if we offer it to them as an extra-curricular training module..." Brock shrugged. “They want to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. We're the ones that are called when aliens attack or crazy scientists gain super powers, so it’s only good for them to know how to team up against someone who’s stronger or faster or simply more experienced than them."

Woo couldn’t argue with this logic. “Alright. I’ll make the proposal, and if enough of them volunteer I’ll clear a slot three times a week. Maybe around 8 p.m.?"

Brock grimaced. “Curfew from 8 till 8."

“Oh." Woo looked slightly startled. He _had_ noticed that he was visiting Brock in a guarded cell, right? “I’ll come up with another time, then. I’ll have to ask the recruits first, anyway. But that means you’re in?"

“Where do I sign?"

  
* ∼ *

Just because it was a Saturday didn’t mean Jemma wasn’t going to the lab straight after breakfast (which was uncharacteristically late today – they’d watched both Top Gun and Police Academy). If nothing had gone wrong, the results of the sequencing of her own genome should be ready today. Fifteen years after the success of the Human Genome Project, sequencing a complete genome had become much faster, but still required time and resources.

Fitz wasn’t in the lab yet. Maybe the last round of onion rings had been a bad idea, after all. Humming to herself, Jemma switched on the displays belonging to her computer and checked the output of the sequencing software. Yes, the result was there. She smiled happily. The next step was to compare her old and new sequences, see if anything had changed, and find out what the probability was that the apparent changes were actually just sequencing errors (they were rare, but with 3.3 billion base pairs in her genome, a few mistakes were bound to happen).

A few hours later, she had everything set up, and now needed to wait... one hundred and forty-eight minutes, according to the software’s prediction. Jemma looked at her watch. It was just after twelve, so almost lunch time. Thinking back to Skye’s comments from the night before, Jemma decided to ask her soulmate out for lunch. Well, it would only be in the mess, and they’d probably be closely watched by everyone, but still. It must be terribly boring for Brock to eat alone every day.

Jemma quickly made her way to the cell block, where the guard on duty scrambled to get out of his small office and called after her: “Agent Simmons! Rumlow’s not here."

“He isn’t?", Jemma asked, surprised.

“No. He left more than an hour ago."

So around eleven. A very early lunch, maybe? He hadn’t explicitly said anything to her, but the fact that Jemma had never coincidentally met Brock in the mess had lead her to believe he avoided the busier mealtimes. Thus, Jemma changed direction and walked to the mess. Only about a third of the places were occupied, none of them by Brock. Jemma sighed. Maybe her soulmate wanted to make use of the lunchtime lull to use the gym? Ten minutes later, she had to admit he wasn’t there, either.

Images of Brock escaping from the base, being hunted down by the Avengers and locked up in some high-security prison flickered through Jemma’s mind. _That’s absurd._ Brock’s tracker had been designed by Fitz, there was no way for him to disable it. And trying to flee while being actively tracked was a much too stupid move for someone with Brock’s experience. Jemma pushed those panicked thoughts away and considered the situation more rationally. What did Sherlock Holmes say? Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. If Brock wasn’t in his cell, the mess or the gym, the only other places he had access to were the common rooms and kitchens. Jemma didn’t really peg Brock as someone who watched movies at lunchtime (especially not in a possibly hostile environment), but it really must be terribly boring to sit in his cell all day with nothing to do.

To Jemma’s great relief, she found Brock in the second common room she checked. And he wasn’t alone. Surprised, Jemma recognized Agent Woo sharing a table with Brock. Both were bent over a tablet and a stack of papers, discussing quietly. Apparently, they weren’t as absorbed in their work as Jemma and Fitz always were in their scientific discussions, because both looked up before Jemma had even crossed the room halfway.

Brock smiled at her. “Jemma. What a nice surprise."

“Agent Simmons", Woo acknowledged her politely.

“Agent Woo, Brock." Faced with both men’s attention, Jemma suddenly felt a bit shy. “Um. I’m waiting for an experiment to finish, so I thought I’d ask you if you wanted to have lunch. But you’re obviously occupied, so..."

“Oh. I’m sorry, but we already had some sandwiches." Brock sounded genuinely regretful. “Woo asked me to help train the new recruits, so we’re working on some training plans."

“It’s no problem. I’m happy you’ve finally found something to do." Only after the words had left her mouth, Jemma realized that it might have been a bad idea to point out Brock’s uncomfortable position so openly in front of Woo. She blushed. Determined to distract the men from her faux pas, Jemma ploughed on: “Do you like pizza?"

Surprised by the sudden change in topic, Brock blinked up at her. “Um. Yes?"

“How about I organize some pizza for tomorrow evening, and we’ll have dinner in your room?"

If either Brock or Woo noticed that she had said room instead of cell, they didn’t show it. Instead, Brock started smiling again.

“That sounds like a great idea. Seven?"

“Seven", Jemma agreed. Then she said her goodbyes and hastily fled from the room.

Back in the safety of her lab, Jemma sighed and told her computer: “That could have gone better. Then again, tomorrow I’ll finally have that date Skye teased me about, so it could also have gone worse."

Before she did anything else, Jemma ordered pizza ingredients on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s internal logistics site. Since they were living in a secret base that had become quite populated over the last two years, Coulson didn’t want his people to drive into town every time they needed something. Instead, orders were bundled and the support staff made trips to various adjacent towns to do the shopping. Jemma was actually quite glad about this system because it saved her a lot of time.

That done, Jemma looked at the status bar of her calculations. Still eighty-four minutes to go. Well, she might as well get started on the report for the newly developed sedative. After some terribly frustrating weeks following her discussion with Coulson, Jemma had had a breakthrough in this project the day before Brock’s second test on the handbook. She had been so happy about it that Brock had noticed that evening, and almost got her to tell him about it. This had been a week ago, and during this time, Jemma had managed to thoroughly test the substance. It really looked like she had found what they’d been looking for. So now, all that was left was documenting her results and presenting them to Coulson.

Jemma was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t even hear the soft ping her computer made when the calculation had finished. Almost two hours later, Jemma had finished the section describing the two different ways of synthesising the new substance that she’d come up with, and got up to make herself a cup of tea. Passing by the large desktop computer, she saw the small popup window declaring “Calculation complete."

“Oh." Slightly nervous, Jemma closed the popup and scrolled through the results in the main window. Then she deflated. Apart from some point mutations of individual amino acids, which might also have been sequencing errors, the old and new versions of her genome were identical. So, no mysterious soulbond gene that had suddenly appeared. Dispirited, Jemma slumped down on her swivel chair. She’d put a lot of hope in this project.

“Stop brooding", Jemma finally chided herself. “That’s never helped anyone." Instead, she resorted to a time-honoured British cure-all and got up to finally make herself that cup of tea. The familiar motions of setting water to boil, washing out her mug, measuring out tea leaves in the infuser, pouring the boiling water over it and then waiting for it to steep never failed to calm her down. The more she thought about it, the less surprised she was by her results.

“The genotype alone doesn’t determine the phenotype", Jemma quietly quoted her biology teacher. Genes alone don’t determine the observable characteristics of an organism, including diseases or exotic phenomena like soulbonds. No, factors that can influence the expression of these genes, that is, how often they are read out and at which rate their corresponding products are produced, also play an important role. And those factors can be changed much more easily than a person’s DNA, for which the body has a lot of proofreading mechanisms that are supposed to prevent exactly such changes. So Jemma would probably have to dive into epigenetics, and look into her RNA as well.

“That’s... quite a big can of worms", Jemma muttered as she carried her tea back to her computer. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing the sedative project is basically finished."

Jemma spent the rest of that day and most of the next brushing up on her epigenetics knowledge. It was quite a complex topic. _I do wonder if any of the scientists coming to the conference in Warsaw have looked into this. It might save me a lot of time if they have._

Just after five, Jemma headed to one of the communal kitchens. There was a cardboard box with her name on it waiting in the small storage room. Humming quietly, Jemma preheated the oven, measured out flour and yeast, water, salt and oil and prepared a soft yeast dough. Just before shutting off her tablet and leaving the lab, she had read about silencer RNA. When it was present, it could “shut off" a gene that would otherwise be active. While she was kneading the dough, Jemma slowly came up with a theory. What if there really was some kind of “soulmate gene" that caused both the hormonal dependence and also the benefits of a soulbond, but which was usually repressed by something like silencer RNA? Then, the forging of the bond could lead to a downregulation of the silencer RNA and thus an activation of the gene.

Still deep in thought, Jemma started to prepare the toppings while the dough was rising. Having realized last night that she didn’t actually know what Brock liked, she’d ordered a large variety of vegetables and some ham. Chopping some peppers, Jemma decided that in order to test her theory, she first needed to find the soulmate gene. Once she knew which gene the silencer RNA (or some other regulation mechanism) was supposed to influence, it would be much easier to identify. However, for this first step, she needed data, preferably from as many individuals as possible. And unfortunately she didn’t have access to the 100,000 Genomes Project's data base.

“Oh, of course!", Jemma finally exclaimed. She could just ask if any members of S.H.I.E.L.D. with a soulmark would be willing to donate some genetic material. For that, she would need Director Coulson’s permission, but they had a meeting scheduled for the next morning anyway.

That decided, Jemma finally concentrated on the pizza. The dough was ready. Jemma divided it in two pieces, rolled them out and placed them on two baking trays. Hopefully, this would be enough for someone with a specialist’s appetite. Also, it gave her an opportunity to prepare different combinations of toppings to hopefully create something that would appeal to her soulmate. While the pizza was in the oven, Jemma got a small cart from the storage room and placed plates, cutlery and glasses on top of it. Then she hesitated. On the rare occasions that she went to a restaurant – which was mostly with her family, to be honest, because she just didn’t find the _time_ at S.H.I.E.L.D. – Jemma liked to have a glass of wine with her meal. Therefore, she’d ordered a small bottle of red. But considering Brock’s family history, she wasn’t sure if he was even drinking any alcohol. _Only one way to find out._ She placed the bottle on the cart, together with a bottle of water and another one of coke. As soon as the pizza was done, Jemma precariously balanced it on top of the cart, too, and made her way to the cell block.

“That smells divine", the guard sighed jealously as he opened the locks for her.

“Let’s hope it tastes as good as it smells." Then Jemma gave the door a perfunctory knock and called: “Room service!"

Brock’s hand appeared on the edge of the door, opening it fully. “Wow. I should stay here more often, I’ve never had such a hot room service before."

In the background, the guard coughed and hastily retreated to his office. Jemma just laughed and pushed the cart through the door. She saw that Brock had dragged the table in front of the bed and placed the only chair on the opposite site.

“I didn’t really know which toppings you like, so I just made a little bit of everything", she explained as Brock eyed the two large trays.

“I’m definitely not complaining", he answered with a grin. “But I pretty much like everything. When you have undercover missions in almost every country of the world, you can’t afford to be picky about your food."

“True."

They set the table and Brock insisted that Jemma take the chair, while he sat on the slightly too low bed. It looked a bit funny to have the table almost reach up to his chest. Then Jemma pointed to the beverages.

“I wasn’t sure if you drink alcohol, so I brought a few different things."

“Why...? Oh, of course you’d’ve heard about my mother." Brock sighed. “There was a phase when I was young and frustrated and had way too much beer, but the army put my head on straight. And when I was a specialist I often had missions that started in a bar, so I had to get used to knowing my limits and sticking to them. Nowadays – in moderation. At the right occasion."

He got up again, grabbed the two wine glasses from the cart, placed them on the table and opened the bottle with the opener Jemma had remembered at the last second to grab from the kitchen. “And I would say this is a pretty good occasion."

They finally both dug into the pizza. For a while, neither spoke much, except to praise the food. When the worst hunger had been sated, Jemma took a sip of her wine and threw Brock a thoughtful glance.

“You know – I’m really starting to like you."

Brock gave her a crooked smile. “That’s good to hear."

“And it looks like you’re doing everything in your power to get back into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s good graces."

“I am."

“That means there’s a realistic chance of this", she gestured between the two of them, “working out."

“I certainly hope so." Jemma’s grave mood had rubbed off on Brock, he was serious now, too.

“I have to call my parents tomorrow, it’s my father’s birthday. So I thought that would be a good opportunity to tell them about us."

Brock suddenly seemed nervous. “Your parents?"

“Yes." It occurred to Jemma that Brock might not have spent any thoughts on this topic, yet. After all, he hadn’t had to take into account any family matters for the last fifteen years.

“Won’t they want to – I don’t know, meet me?"

Jemma couldn’t suppress a little amused smile. “Eventually, yes. Maybe I can convince Coulson to let you come with me over the Christmas holidays."

“Um." Brock seemed caught completely off guard. “But. I mean." He took a deep breath. “I’m a former terrorist. There was an international warrant against me, they might even have seen my face in the news or on a most wanted list. Do you think it’s a good idea to let your parents know that _I_ am your soulmate?"

“Brock." Jemma put her hand over his and explained earnestly: “I can assure you that you were never on British television, I checked. And my parents don’t have a habit of visiting police stations, which is the only place where we _have_ any wanted lists. I’m not planning to tell them that you’re a former member of Hydra, I would just say that you work for S.H.I.E.L.D., like me, and maybe – that we met on a mission, where I had to provide first aid to you. That’s close enough to the truth."

She smiled with a fond expression in her eyes. “I really like my family. They didn’t always understand me and my love for biochemistry, and I think they are pretty scared because I have such a dangerous job, but they love me and I love them. Of course I sometimes have to lie to them about what I do, but I try to keep it to a minimum. And keeping you secret, that would just be _wrong_. Especially because I hope that, in a few years time, you will be a regular member of S.H.I.E.L.D. again, and we can just be a normal intra-agency couple."

Brock swallowed hard. “Wow. That..." He threw a quick glance at the camera, then apparently decided to ignore its presence. “Jemma. You’ve come to mean a lot to me. And I’m afraid I have no idea whatsoever how to deal with someone’s parents. I don’t want you to be sad if I screw up and they don’t like me."

Jemma couldn’t help herself, she had to laugh. “Brock, that’s really sweet. But from what everyone tells me, you’re an excellent actor. You managed to deceive Captain America, I’m sure you can handle my parents."

Brock blushed a little. “Okay, when you put it like that, it does sound a bit dumb."

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. More pizza?"

Brock accepted gladly. When they’d both chosen another piece, Jemma asked: “So, what’s the deal with Woo?"

“He might be the solution to my problems", Brock grinned. “I saw him in the gym with his newest recruits, they didn’t really take him all that seriously. Then two of them got hurt, Woo had to escort them to Medical and I offered to supervise the rest. I thought..." He scratched his head, looking almost a bit embarrassed. “I thought maybe Coulson would be happy if I kept his newest agents from getting killed on their first mission, so I decided to teach them a lesson. Apparently, it worked, because Woo asked me to help him on a more permanent basis."

“Do I want to know what exactly you did?"

“I don’t really wanna tell you, if that’s okay."

Jemma laughed. “Fair enough. A man is entitled to his secrets. Some, at least. So training the newbies will help against your boredom?"

“That’s one benefit. The other is that eight out of the fourteen recruits agreed to participate in some extracurricular training sessions with me."

“Extracurricular training sessions. You mean they get to beat you up?"

Jemma hoped that Brock had recognized her teasing tone. Apparently, he had, because he stuck out his tongue at her.

“I hope that some of them are already competent at hand-to-hand from their previous careers. Then it will be a win-win situation, they learn to team up against someone more experienced, and I hopefully manage to pass Rogers’ test."

“That sounds good", Jemma replied honestly. “So when will you start?"

“The regular training starts tomorrow, which is why Woo and I met yesterday and today to go over the schedule. There are three of the hand-to-hand training sessions per week, Woo had to squeeze them in between the other stuff somehow because I’m limited to the time from eight to eight." He made a face.

“Well, I’ll be waiting to hear how it went."

They lapsed into silence again, finishing their pizza. There was still quite a lot left, but Jemma was almost bursting already. Well, she’d just take the leftovers to the lab, there they’d surely disappear tomorrow. But she was happy that Brock had seemed to like the food she’d made. Then something occurred to Jemma, and she frowned in confusion.

“What?", Brock asked.

As a scientist, Jemma wasn’t one to shy away from a puzzle, even if solving it involved some rather personal questions. “Earlier, when we were talking about my parents – you seemed nervous."

“That’s because I _was_ nervous", Brock said drily.

Jemma shook her head. “But I remember quite a few other situations where you must have been nervous." She counted them on her fingers. “When you were stuck with us in the plane, while we were Magnusson’s prisoners, when Bobby interrogated you, when we were at court, when Captain Rogers came to test you..."

“Yes?", Brock asked, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

“But back then, you never _seemed_ nervous. You always looked as if you had everything under control."

“Oh", Brock said with dawning realization. “I think I know what you mean."

He seemed to search for the right words for a moment. “Jemma, I was trained to hide my emotions, or even to fake emotions if the mission calls for it. When I feel..." He glanced up at the camera again, then sighed and turned his gaze fully on Jemma. “When I feel threatened, or unsure, or in danger, then I automatically fall back on my training. _Never show weakness_ and all that. But you, you’re my soulmate. I don’t want to play a role when I’m with you. That’s what soulmates are for, right? That you can let down your defenses and just be yourself."

Jemma looked at his honest expression and felt her breath catch. “Can I kiss you?"

“Um." That was the second time today that Brock seemed completely flabbergasted. “Sure?"

Jemma grinned, got up from her chair, walked around the table and sat down next to Brock. Then she slowly put a hand behind his head, pulled him closer and kissed him. It was a chaste kiss without any tongue, but it felt surprisingly _right_.

“Tell me what I did to earn that, so that I can do it more often", Brock whispered, slightly out of breath.

“You trusted me with a side of you that I don’t think many people have seen so far", Jemma whispered back.

Hesitatingly, Brock raised his hand. “Can I...?"

“Sure. This is an equal partnership", Jemma replied, unable to keep the giddy laugh out of her voice.

Now it was Brock who cradled her head in his hand and slowly bent forwards. The second kiss was just as nice as the first.

Jemma sighed against his lips. “Please try to pass that test soon. I want to do this without being on camera."

“So do I, sweetheart, so do I."

They sat like that for a little while longer, foreheads pressed against each other, then Jemma groaned. “I think my neck is cramping. You’re too tall."

Brock laughed openly. “No, you’re too small. Mine hurts, too. Come on, let’s clear the table."

It didn’t take long to put everything back on the cart. After a look at the clock on his wall, Brock sighed. “I would like to help you with the cleaning, but..."

“Yeah, I know. Another reason to pass that test soon."

They smiled at each other.

“Well, I guess I better go now. I’ll have a meeting at seven tomorrow morning."

Brock nodded, and Jemma pressed the button next to the door to call the guard.

“Jemma."

She turned around. “Hm?"

“Thank you for tonight. Really. It was the best evening I’ve had in a long time."

“Maybe we’ll repeat it soon. I enjoyed myself, too." Another smile, then the door opened and Jemma had to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I just noticed during editing that there's a lot of science in this chapter. I tried to keep it as realistic as possible - the HIV and traffic accident statistics are accurate, for example, and the 100,000 Genomes Project really exists. But if there's a soulmate gene, I haven't found it yet :-).


	8. Convincing the Captain

The next morning, Jemma presented her work on the new sedative to Coulson, May and some other operatives. They were very pleased, and Coulson gave her green light to work on the soulbond biology full time. When she explained her current theory, he authorized her to send out a general request for gene samples, provided she was absolutely discreet about who in S.H.I.E.L.D. had a soulmark. In their line of work, this was very sensitive information. Jemma assured him she would be careful. After the meeting, Coulson asked Jemma to stay behind for a moment.

“I was wondering how you feel about field work now. I understand why you wanted a break after the whole debacle with Ward, but three years ago, you were very eager to go on missions with us. Would you like to return to that?"

Jemma nervously smoothed her skirt. “I – haven’t really thought about it recently. Could I maybe do some kind of test run with one of the new teams? The last mission I participated in wasn’t exactly standard..."

“What, you think you won’t find soulmates on every mission now?", Coulson chuckled. Then he sobered. “That can be arranged. Would you feel more comfortable with cases that are not related to Hydra?"

Jemma nodded emphatically. “At least to start with, that would be good. Maybe once you’ve caught Ward" – saying his name still hurt – “I will feel different about it."

“Good. Then I will let you know as soon as I have a mission for you."

Back in the lab, Jemma performed the satisfactory tasks of moving all folders related to the new sedative to the archive, sending the material to her colleagues who would take care of the production, and destroying all samples left in her fridge. When she was almost done, Fitz rushed into the lab.

“Morning, Jemma."

“Hi Fitz. Where were you yesterday?"

“Mission briefing. Look, I gotta run, I just wanted to grab a few things."

“Mission briefing? I thought you had enough of field work?"

Fitz groaned. “Don’t get me started. Coulson’s puppy dog eyes should be considered illegal weapons. And _in theory_, this is a simple clear-out mission without any enemy contact."

“Uh hu. Like Operation Pantyhose."

“Don’t remind me", Fitz grouched and started rummaging through his cupboards. Jemma helped her friend load some boxes onto a cart and sent him off wishing him good luck.

The rest of Jemma’s work day was rather uneventful. In the evening, Fitz came back, directing the two agents who accompanied him to place the cases they were carrying on his lab bench.

“And? Did you come across Hydra again?", Jemma asked.

“Luckily, no. In fact, we didn’t meet anybody. It was almost a bit anticlimactic. We were in Montana, a ranger had noticed some weird sounds and blue explosions at a weapons range somewhere in his forest. Turns out that they used weapons based on Chitauri tech."

“_Based on_ Chitauri tech or really Chitauri weapons?"

“No, someone has gone and copied a Chitauri energy source and then put it in some definitely human weapons. That’s why Coulson wants me to have a look at the stuff."

Jemma frowned. “Do you know who might have the skill to do something like that?"

Wordlessly, Fitz opened one of the cases and took out something that looked very similar to a rifle but whose magazine was surrounded by a dim blue glow. He turned the weapon so that Jemma could see the tiny symbol engraved on the trigger. Hydra.

“Great", she groaned. “Just when I thought we were slowly smoking them out..."

“Yeah. I wonder how they still have enough resources", Fitz agreed. They looked at each other in mutual suffering. Then Fitz shrugged and started scanning the weapon while Jemma went back to her work. As she was preparing to leave, Fitz called after her:

“Hey Jemma!"

“Hm?"

“Did you see my scarf somewhere?"

“Your scarf?"

“Yeah. I could swear I took it on the mission with me because, you know, Montana in October, but when we came back I couldn’t find it anymore. Did you see it here in the lab?"

“No, sorry."

“Hm. I’ll have to keep looking, then. Good night."

When Fitz kept grumbling about the scarf the next two days, Jemma secretly bought an identical one on the internet, washed and dried it a few times to get the factory smell out and hid it beneath Fitz’s lab bench. It was a fan scarf of his hometown’s soccer team. Jemma knew that his grandmother had given it to him when he was leaving for the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy, and since she had passed away two years ago, Fitz was quite sentimental about the thing. Luckily, Fitz didn’t notice it was a replacement. Maybe that was because he was quite caught up with the weapons they had confiscated in Montana. He’d completely disassambled one of them and seemed grudgingly impressed by the engineering.

When Fitz started working on the second weapon, something was obviously bothering him. After he’d run all his usual scans on the object, he asked Jemma to join him.

“Does this smell funny to you?"

“Smell funny?", Jemma asked skeptically. She took a step back. “You don’t think it’s infected with another Chitauri virus, do you?"

Fitz looked alarmed. “I hope not. I mean, how? Like I said, it’s based on Chitauri tech but not actually from the Chitauri. No, it smells – wait, no, I shouldn’t influence you. Please, tell me what it smells like to you."

Reluctantly, Jemma came closer and sniffed. “Like any other piece of metal."

“Huh. Are you sure?"

“Completely."

“Weird. Could you maybe test if it’s emitting something?"

Jemma shrugged. “Sure. I’ll put it in a vacuum chamber and then check the air for contaminants. But we should give it a few hours to increase the concentration, get a better signal."

Her tests found some organic compounds, but as she told Fitz, they could just be sweat from the last user. Still a bit weirded out, Fitz took the weapon back and started disassembling it.

The other man in Jemma’s life was in a better mood than she’d ever seen him. Jemma hadn’t realized how badly the forced inactivity had been weighing Brock down. Then again, that wasn’t surprising. She’d only known him as a prisoner, so she didn’t really have a reference to compare his behaviour against. Even though he seemed slightly tired when she visited him in the evenings, training the new recruits was obviously very satisfying for him. And when he sported a split lip after his second ‘extracurricular training session’, he told Jemma with a grin that the ducklings weren’t completely useless. She tentatively hoped that this would mean a retry of Captain Rogers’ test soon, so that she would finally be able to get more than just a chaste goodnight kiss every evening.

After a week, Jemma was sent on her first field mission. She was happy that May was part of her team and even happier that all of the evidence suggested a megalomaniacal biology professor was the sole perpetrator. The whole thing was over in less than three days, but it was challenging (and, to be honest, exciting) enough that Jemma told Coulson she would like to go back into the field part-time.

The next three weeks were spent on the soulbond project. Fitz had immediately agreed to let Jemma sequence his genome, Medical had reluctantly given Jemma one of the blood samples they’d taken from Brock when he’d been brought to the Playground, and so far, two intra-agency couples as well as one bonded agent with a civilian partner had contacted her as well. While she was waiting for the results, Jemma kept looking into possible regulation mechanisms. Jemma was a bit disheartened when she discovered just _how many_ possibilities there were. She put a lot of hope in the conference in Warsaw, but that was still three months away. At least her daily meetings with Brock cheered her up. He told her that he was making a lot of progress, and that Woo had suggested to Coulson that he should contact Captain Rogers. Things were finally moving along.

  
* ∼ *

Just after eight, there was a knock and the door opened. Jemma.

“Hi. So, tomorrow’s the big day, huh?"

“Yup. I’m as prepared as I can be."

“I was wondering, um, do you– do you want me to be there?"

She sounded very unsure. Brock was equally hesitant. “Honestly? No. I mean, don’t get me wrong, but– I don’t know what Rogers has planned besides the five-on-one fight. It could turn out just as humiliating for me as the last one. And I don’t want you to see me like that."

It was very, very hard for him to admit that. Luckily, Jemma didn’t mock him for it. On the contrary, she made a very relieved sigh.

“That’s good to hear. I mean– not that you think it might go badly for you. But that you don’t want me there. Because last time just watching you fight on the security camera recording was nerve wracking for me. Maybe I could meet you here afterwards, though?"

“Yes. I’d like that", Brock answered with an earnest smile. Whatever the outcome, he could probably use some company afterwards.

“Okay. Then I don’t want to keep you from your sleep. See you tommorow."

“See you tomorrow. And thanks for asking."

Jemma gave him a quick peck on the lips, then left again. She hadn’t even closed the door, and thus didn’t have to call for the guard. The lock clicked shut behind her again. Brock thoughtfully stared at the door. _If_ he managed to pass the test tomorrow, he might finally get out of this cell. Which would mean getting rid of the camera, and finally being able to kiss Jemma the way he’d been wanting to for weeks, now. If that wasn’t motivation to win, he didn’t know what was.

The next day, Brock went to the mess for breakfast as soon as his clock showed eight. He’d woken up at half past six already, unable to go back to sleep. _It’s only a training fight, damn it, it’s not even life or death_, he chided himself as he dug into his scrambled eggs. Since the test was scheduled for 2 p.m., he would only have a light lunch. No need to puke all over the gym if he could help it. During the morning, Brock went over his notes one last time. He knew it was pointless, everything written down on those sheets of paper had been long commited to memory, but he just needed something to _do_ or he would go up the walls with nervous energy. Lunch was a quick affair. Afterwards, he lay down on his bed for an hour to try and rest. It didn’t really work. At half past one, he went to the gym to get changed and do a careful warm up.

The first thing Brock noticed were two mobile hospital beds that had been pushed to one wall. Now, _that_ wasn’t ominous at all. There were a few people present, but not the masses he’d been afraid might come. Maybe Rogers had put his foot down in order to be able to do the test without interference. However, there were three faces in the gym that Brock knew well: Walker, Anderson and Hawkins were also warming up. Suspicious, Brock made his way over to the trio.

“It’s not a coincidence you’re here, is it?"

“Nope", Anderson replied cheerfully. “Captain Rogers asked us to participate again."

“And there’s the other two", Hawkins added with a nod to the door.

Two burly men in combat suits had just entered the large room. Brock had seen them in the gym before but never talked to them. Well, he’d trained with Jack Rollins often enough that he wasn’t afraid of an opponent that was larger than him. The two men nodded at the group, then started doing some slow laps.

“Now all that’s missing is the review board", Anderson quipped.

As if on cue, Steve Rogers came through the doors. But he wasn’t alone: Walking a few steps behind him, Hunter and Sam Wilson were talking animatedly. Brock couldn’t help the ball of nerves that settled in his stomach. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and nodded at the newcomers.

“Captain. Hunter, Wilson."

“Rumlow. Gentlemen, and Lady, of course. Glad to see you could all make it. Well, I suggest we get started right away. Same rules as last time, unarmed combat only, stay on the mats, and if someone taps out or does leave the mats, they’re out."

Brock could feel his heart pounding. But it wasn’t the first time he’d faced difficult odds. He took another deep breath and let the calm alertness of fight mode settle over him. He kept his stance loose and ready, all five opponents in his sight.

“Everybody ready? Then go!"

At Rogers’ signal, the two burly agents rushed Brock simultaneously. But he was quicker and more agile than them and managed to twist away to let them crash into each other instead. He got lucky. One of the two was hit in such an unfortunate way by the other one’s elbow that he went to the ground. One down, four to go. Then the three Australians joined the fight, and things got much more interesting. A while later, the second big agent managed to bear-hug Brock from behind, lifted him off his feet and started to squeeze the air out of him. Anderson and Walker immediately tried to catch Brock’s flailing legs. But Brock wasn’t done yet. He smashed his head backwards, and a roar as well as a wet feeling on the back of his head told him that he’d probably broken the other man’s nose.

“Sorry", he gasped out. He hadn’t really meant to do lasting damage. Well, Medical was quite good at healing such a common injury these days.

Brock got dropped on the floor, and his opponent stumbled off the mat. Brock used his position to swipe a foot at Hawkin’s legs and managed to make the other man fall, too. Then he quickly rolled to get away from where Anderson had aimed a powerful kick. Just as Brock got up, a strong fist connected with his side, making the air whoosh out of him with a surprised “Uff!".

“Surprise", Hunter declared cheerily.

Having the Brit join the melee upped the level of difficulty significantly. There were a few situations which Brock only barely managed to get out of. Then Anderson and Walker tried another of their scarily synchronised attack strategies, with the other two stepping back to give the pair more room. Only this time, the tactic didn’t work. Instead, Brock managed to push Walker into Anderson with such force that they both stumbled off the mats.

“Bugger!", the petite woman swore in frustration. “We almost had you."

“Yeah, keep dreaming", Brock grunted as he blocked an attack by Hunter. Sure, he was tiring, and he’d been hit and kicked enough times that he was probably not going to be able to move once the adrenaline wore off. But now that it was down to two-on-one, his chances really started looking up.

Five minutes later, Brock got a fist through Hawkins’ guard and hit him hard enough to bring him down. Rogers quickly pulled the downed man off the mats and let Hawkins’ two compatriots get some ice for him.

“Now it’s just like old times, eh mate?", Hunter grinned at him.

Brock managed a smirk in return. “Just with a slightly different audience."

The two men circled each other, attacking again and again. Brock had improved significantly since his first test, but being back in the field for five weeks had made Hunter more dangerous, too. And _he_ hadn’t been beaten up by five other people today. Now that Hunter didn’t have to make room to let others get a go at Brock, too, he could play his dirty tactics to full effect. For quite a while, it was hard to say who would win their match. Then, _finally_, Brock managed to place a kick on the side of Hunter’s knee, dislocating the kneecap. The Brit screamed with pain, but launched himself at Brock anyway. They both crashed to the ground. However, now that the other man had a clear weakness he could exploit, Brock quickly gained the upper hand. In the end, it was Hunter who had to tap out. Brock immediately rolled off of him.

“Sorry, man. I swear I was aiming for your thigh."

Brock knew that if a kneecap had been dislocated once, it often became unstable and could make a recurrence of that same injury much more likely. He also remembered how frustrated Hunter had been when he’d been on medical leave. Hopefully he hadn’t just alienated one of his very few allies in this place.

“Bloody hell", the merc swore as he sat up. Then he looked at Brock with grudging respect. “Good fight, though. Don’t sweat it. It’s not the first time. Medical has...", he waved his hand vaguely, “ways to tighten the tendons again. I’ll be fine."

Brock slumped in relief. Now that this last little adrenaline surge ebbed away, he was starting to feel his own bruises. But hey, he’d passed the first test! The question was, did Rogers have another–

“Uh oh", Hunter’s voice interrupted Brock’s thoughts. The merc was looking at something behind Brock’s back. Brock’s head whipped around.

_Oh fuck._ It was Romanoff, and she was twirling two long wooden staffs in her hand. Brock hastily scrambled to his feet. Behind him, he could hear the Australians carrying Hunter to one of the mobile beds, and the Brit swearing as they jostled his leg. It sounded muted to Brock, all of his attention was on the smiling redhead.

“Rumlow. Nice to see you again." The expression in her eyes belied her words. She tossed him one of the staffs. “No need to stay on the mats this time."

With that, she attacked. Brock was hard pressed to keep her from knocking him out immediately. Damn her, he hadn’t been allowed to train with any kind of weapon since being captured by S.H.I.E.L.D., and he was decidedly rusty.

“Come on, is that the best you can do? It’s not a chopstick, Rumlow, it’s a weapon."

Something wasn’t adding up. He’d worked with Romanoff a number of times, when she and Rogers had accompanied his STRIKE team on missions. She wasn’t one for taunting her opponents. Silent death, that was more her style. So why...?

Movement in his peripheral vision. Instinctively, Brock ducked. A small rubber dart with a suction cup tip stuck to the wall where his head had just been. _Hawkeye. Great._ Where could he be hiding? Brock knew that the archer liked high places, so he looked up. There, he must have climbed up some of the ropes that were hanging close to the far wall, and then walked along the ventilation tubes that criss-crossed the large room. But even though there were many of them, they weren’t covering _everything_.

Of course Romanoff used Brock’s momentary distraction, her staff poked painfully in his midsection. Brock quickly used his own weapon to push hers up and away, then set off at a run to get out of Barton’s line of fire. He had to duck two more darts and was happy that the rubber projectiles with their rather large but light tips were both slower and harder to control than the arrows Barton usually favored.

Once he’d gotten behind cover, Brock dove into a forwards roll. It was exactly the right choice, as Romanoff’s staff whistled over him. He'd known that she would follow him, had also known that she was actually a faster runner than him – and that she would probably aim for his back as soon as she reached him. Coming back up, Brock finally went on the offensive. Romanoff grinned, she seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. Especially whenever she landed a hit. To be honest, the hit count was about four to one in her favour. But at least he hit her _sometimes_. Brock was really feeling his bruises from the last fight, and he knew that his reserves were running low. Well, if he had to, he would keep going until he passed out. Anything to pass this damn test. Every now and again, Brock looked up to check that he was still behind cover. Romanoff was trying to push him back out in the open, and three more darts flew in his direction, but all of them missed. In the end, his determination to stay behind cover while Romanoff could openly dance around him cost him the fight. She broke into a short sprint, jumped against the climbing wall he was hiding behind, ran a few steps along the vertical surface, and brought her staff down on his with enough force to knock his weapon from his hand. After that, it only took her a few seconds to have him pushed up against the wall with the tip of her staff pressed against his throat.

Breathing heavily, Brock ground out: “Yield!"

Romanoff held her position a few moments longer, it clearly pleased her to have him at her mercy. Well, she was known for holding grudges. And considering their history, he couldn’t even blame her. Just before she released him, a rubber dart stuck to his forehead. Behind Romanoff, Barton had swung down from the ventilation tubes and grinned cheekily. Once Romanoff had stepped back, Brock plucked the dart from his skin, then gingerly rubbed his throat.

“Any other surprises you’ve planned? Because then I think I’ll have to pass." Brock was actually quite happy to be leaning against a solid wall. His legs had started shaking, and his body hurt everywhere. If _Rogers_ decided he wanted another round with Brock – he’d probably go down before the man even touched him. He warily watched the Captain’s approach.

To Brock’s great relief, Rogers only threw him a hard glance and said: “No, that’s it for today. Wait here."

The three of them walked over to the other side of the gym. Brock slowly slid down the wall and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the cold concrete. He _really_ hoped that he’d passed. The thought of waiting who knew how many more weeks for a third try, and then another such painful fight... Of course, if he had passed, he’d have to go on missions with the Avengers soon, and those had the potential of being much more damaging. Then again, while he was excellent at hand-to-hand, on missions his brain and his gun were usually enough to get him through. If anyone would trust him with a gun ever again.

“Here. You look like you need it."

Brock opened his eyes. It was Wilson, and he was offering him a water bottle.

“Thanks", Brock said, eyeing the other man warily. He didn’t really know Rogers’ pal, wasn’t sure if he would try to screw him over as revenge for, well, everything. Water was water, though, and he drank thirstily.

Wilson looked down at him with a slight smirk. “Order only comes through pain, huh?"

Brock groaned. “Believe me, I had enough time to regret saying that while Hydra stitched me back together."

“Yeah, I heard."

“But it’s actually not a Hydra motto. It was from my drill sergeant in the army."

“Sounds like a nice guy", Wilson commented ironically.

“Yeah. Everybody hated him." Brock studied the man in front of him. “You were army, too, weren’t you?"

“Air Force. 58th Rescue Squadron, pararescue."

“Pararescue. The cool guys." Brock grinned.

Wilson pointed a finger at him. “Hey, I’m not deciding your case, so no need to flatter."

Brock made a “what, me?" gesture and asserted: “I wouldn’t dream of it."

Wilson clearly didn’t buy it, but turned his head towards the room when he heard the others’ voices getting louder. He turned back to Brock. “Can you stand?"

“I have to, don’t I?" Gritting his teeth, Brock pushed himself to his feet. God, he hoped they hurried so he could have a hot shower and then hide in his bed for the next week or so.

Rogers stopped a few feet away with crossed arms. “We’ve come to a decision. You’ve met my requirement of winning against five opponents. Agents Romanoff and Barton agree that you’ve shown you can keep a clear head when faced with a superior enemy. So we will provisionally accept you on missions with us."

Brock released a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. “I’ll do my best not to make you regret it."

“I hope so, Rumlow. Let me get something straight. Just because the court gave you a second chance doesn’t mean we trust you. We’ll be watching you closely on these missions. One wrong step and you’ll end up in our prison for good. Understood?"

“You made yourself very clear, Captain", Brock answered in a clipped voice. What he really wanted to say was a lot less polite and probably would have lead to a revocation of his hard-won mission readiness. But this wasn’t the first time he’d received a dressing-down from a superior officer, and that’s what Rogers effectively was to him now. Brock could take a little humiliation, he was a big boy.

With that, the four Avengers left him alone. Brock was very, very relieved that he’d passed the test. Now the floor suddenly seemed quite inviting. Lying down and staying there for a day sounded nice. But Brock forced himself to walk slowly to the showers, where the hot water loosened his muscles enough that he thought he might actually make it back to his cell on his own. It would be very embarrassing to collapse in the hallway.

The trip was hell, he hadn’t felt this sore since before the Triskelion. He must have looked pretty bad, too, judging from the guard’s expression when he opened the lock for him. Once inside, Brock closed the door and slid to the ground. Finally, safe from prying eyes. The last of the adrenaline left his body, and he was shaking in earnest.

“Brock? Oh my gosh, are you okay?"

Brock flinched. He’d been so exhausted he hadn’t even noticed the lights were turned on. Luckily, it was only Jemma.

“I’m fine", he murmured as his soulmate rushed to his side.

Her hands ghosted over the visible bruises on his arms and face. “You don’t look fine. But how did it go?"

“I passed." He managed a small smile at that.

Jemma squeeled and kissed him happily on his bruised lips until Brock made a pained sound and pulled back.

“Sorry. I’m a bit... battered."

“No, I’m sorry, I got carried away. Come on, let’s get you to bed, okay?"

A large part of him didn’t want to move, but rationally he knew she was right. So he nodded and tried to get up – only to freeze with a groan. Blushing, he admitted: “Walking’s a bit of a problem right now. I might have to crawl."

“Not if I can help it", Jemma muttered and placed her hand on his naked arm. She closed her eyes, and Brock felt a wave of buzzing energy pass into him. He gasped.

“Jemma, you don’t have to..."

“But I want to." She smiled at him, then stood up and offered him her hand. “Come on, let’s try again."

This time, they made it to the bed. Despite his protests, Jemma helped Brock get out of his boots. He drew the line at getting out of his pants, though. Jemma had already placed his pajamas on the bed, and he got changed while she had her back turned. Then he lay down on the bed with a relieved sigh.

“You’re a life saver, Jemma."

“Anything else I can do for you?"

Brock’s first instinct was to say no – admitting weakness was dangerous in Hydra. But he wasn’t Hydra anymore, and Jemma was his _soulmate_.

“I didn’t go to Medical. Was afraid they might keep me there", he admitted with a self-deprecating grimace. Romanoff had hit him pretty hard, also in his stomach, but she was so good that he trusted her not to cause internal injuries if she didn’t want to.“Could you maybe get me some cool packs or gel or something? And tell Woo that I won’t come the next two days? That’d be great."

“Sure."

Jemma called the guard and disappeared out the door. When she was gone, Brock closed his eyes and tried to relax. _Everything_ hurt. Right now, sleep would be the best medicine. He drifted off and only woke up when Jemma came back. She was carrying a whole tray of things.

“Here. The doctor was quite adamant that you should take some painkillers, said they also help keep the swelling down and make your sleep deeper and more restful."

She pressed two pills and a glass of water into his hands. Faced with her determined expression, Brock took the medicine without comment. Jemma seemed satisfied with his compliance.

“Okay. She also gave me this, to put on the places with the worst swelling, and four cool packs to put wherever you want them. And two bottles with isotonic drinks, because she said you’d probably not feel up to dinner."

Brock nodded emphatically, just thinking about food made his stomach turn.

“Also, Woo said not to worry, he’d just watch the recordings with the recruits."

At that, Brock groaned, and Jemma laughed at him.

“Poor Brock, everybody makes fun of you, huh? But come on, it can’t have been that bad if you passed."

“That’s in the eye of the beholder. And judging by my bruises, it _feels_ like I did pretty badly."

Jemma just shook her head, then helped him spread some of the gel on the bruises on his back. Conversationally, she said: “I met Hunter in Medical. He said to tell you that he’ll have to stay off his leg for two days, but then he’ll be fine."

“That’s good to hear."

“And there was another agent with a broken nose who seemed rather grumpy when he heard us talking about you."

“Well, I assume he volunteered to fight me, so–"

“Brock!"

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. I didn’t mean to break his nose, it was just... That happened when it was still four against one, and I didn’t really have many other options. And also, it’s better if he learns from me that he shouldn’t hold someone that close to his face than if he notices in the field."

“That’s true, I suppose", Jemma admitted. Then she wiped her hands on a paper towel and declared: “All done. Do you want me to leave now so you can sleep?"

Brock looked up at her from half-lidded eyes. He was _very_ tired. But on the other hand... “Stay?"

Jemma looked at him thoughtfully. Then she nodded. “Okay. Is it okay if I borrow a shirt and maybe some shorts?"

“What?"

“Well, sleeping in a blouse and jeans isn’t that comfortable."

“Um, I didn’t mean..."

Jemma turned that _smile_ on him again, and he suddenly forgot what he’d wanted to say.

“If you think it would be uncomfortable for you, because your bed is quite narrow and you’re bruised all over, I can just sit here for a while before going back to my room. But if it’s okay with you, I’d like to sleep here tonight. Just sleep, mind you, ’cause of the camera, and the bruises of course."

Brock was suddenly hoarse. “I’d be happy if you did that."

“Good."

Brock tiredly closed his eyes and heard Jemma rummage around in his little set of drawers. The door to his tiny bathroom shut, then opened again a short time later.

Quietly, Jemma ordered: “Scoot over, you’re sleeping next to the wall. I think falling out would be a lot more painful for you than for me today."

She slipped under his blanket, lying on her side due to the small dimensions of his bed. She seemed happy. And, if Brock was honest with himself, he was happy, too. He had made a big step forwards on his road to redemption today, and his soulmate was here to celebrate it with him.

“Is there anywhere I can touch you that won’t hurt you?", Jemma asked quietly.

Brock had to think about it for a while. Finally, he suggested: “My neck is pretty fine."

Smiling, Jemma placed a hand on his neck and very, very gently kissed him on his lips. “I’m glad I found you", she whispered.

Brock couldn’t help but return her smile. “I’m glad you found me, too."

“Come on, sleep now."

“Yes, doc", he teased her, but he _was_ very tired. Her warmth, her smell, they quickly made him forget his aches and let him drift into sleep.

  
* ∼ *

The next morning, Brock noticed three things. One, there was a warm weight on his hips. Two, he hurt _everywhere_. And three, someone was coughing quite insistently.

“What?"

“Director Coulson wants to talk to you." Definitely the guard’s voice.

“Wha– Ah!" And that was Jemma, who had just fallen out of bed. _And_ taken his blanket with her.

Brock groaned. “When and where?"

“In his office, at 09:00", the guard answered, studiously avoiding to look at either of them.

“Okay, thanks. Could you please shut the door now?"

The guard fulfilled Brock’s wish promptly. Jemma grumpily pulled herself up to sit on the edge of his bed.

“Your floor is very hard", she complained.

“Sorry", Brock replied, but he couldn’t really keep the grin off his face. His soulmate had spent the night with him, and he’d felt completely secure with her. A shame that the awakening had been so rude. Very carefully, he sat up. Brock hissed with pain. He’d feared that the bruises would get worse over night, and he hadn’t been wrong.

“You don’t happen to have any more of those painkillers?", he asked Jemma between clenched teeth.

She handed over the pills and even got up to fill his glass at the wash basin. After he’d ensured her that he didn’t need anything else, Jemma put on yesterday’s clothes and said her goodbyes. Once the meds started working, Brock managed to get up and get dressed himself. He made it to Coulson’s office on time, but only barely and with quite a few bitten-off noises of pain. Couldn’t the Director have met him somewhere closer to his cell? Or waited another day or two?

“Come in."

Coulson was as calm as ever. When he got a good look at Brock, he gestured at one of the chairs and said: “You better sit down."

Brock managed to keep his relief off his face as he gingerly took a seat.

“Captain Rogers informed me that you passed his test yesterday. He will contact me as soon as he has a mission for you. I’ve ordered your things brought into a normal room, but the curfew and the restricted access will stay in place until you’ve made a few tours with the Avengers."

“Thank you, Sir."

Brock wasn’t under any illusions. Coulson still didn’t like or even just trust him, he was only honouring his earlier promises. Still, it paid to be nice to possible bosses and/or co-workers.

“You’re dismissed."

When Brock was reaching for the door handle, Coulson spoke up again.

“Rumlow. If you hurt Agent Simmons, I will tear you apart with my bare hands."

“Noted", Brock replied dryly and left.

He was surprised to find Jemma waiting in the corridor. “Hi. Agent Koenig gave me this for you. I’m afraid right now it will only open your own room’s door, but when you get more access rights, it will be upgraded."

“Thanks." Brock clipped the card to his pants.

“I wondered... Would you like to go to the mess to have breakfast? Or should I get you something and bring it to your room?"

Brock hesitated. After not eating much yesterday, he was quite hungry. But he could imagine very vividly the kind of attention he would attract in the mess looking like he did.

Even though he hadn’t answered yet, Jemma nodded knowingly. “There are always some field agents with visible bruises around, or even people walking on crutches. But when it’s _you_ who looks like he got run over by a bus, people will definitely talk. It’s really no problem for me to bring you something."

Even though he felt slightly cowardly, Brock decided to allow himself one day of weakness. “That’d be great, Jemma, thank you."

“No problem, really. Just wait a second so that I can call someone to show you where your new room is." She pulled out her phone and, after a short conversation, told him that someone would be along shortly. Then she grinned mischievously.

“Any whishes, besides ‘a lot’?"

  
* ∼ *

The new room wasn’t much larger than the cell, but it had the big advantage of being opened by his card and having an additional mechanical bolt on the inside – nothing very robust, but solid enough that hacking skills alone wouldn’t allow anyone to come in uninvited. Also, there was no monitoring equipment that he could find, and Brock had gotten pretty good at spotting these things over the years. He’d just put away his meagre belongings (clothes and toiletries only, all of them S.H.I.E.L.D. issued) when there was a knock on the door. It took him a moment to realize he actually had to go and open it.

“Don’t you have access to this room?"

Jemma seemed surprised. “No, why would I? As far as I know, it’s only opened by your card and the housekeeping master card."

“Huh."

Brock hadn’t actually expected to get _that_ much privacy. Then he finally paid attention to the tray Jemma was carrying. It was so full he was surprised the thin plastic hadn’t broken on the way over. Hastily, he helped her put the thing on his table.

“Wow. Thank you. But you’re sharing with me, right?"

“That was the plan." She smiled at him, and both of them appreciated the fact that he had two chairs now.

After the very nice breakfast, Jemma told him she had to get back to work. Even though he was always sad to see her go, in this instance Brock was happy that it meant he could go back to bed. He stayed there pretty much the rest of the day. Even though the bruises in his face were still a vivid blue the next morning, Brock decided to go the mess. He couldn’t very well hide in his room for the next two weeks until all traces of the bruising were gone. At least his muscles didn’t hurt as much anymore, so he could walk normally again. There were some snide comments nevertheless. Brock ignored them. In deference to his still healing body, Brock only went to the gym to run a few rounds and planned to spend the rest of the day reading on his new bed. He’d go back to helping Woo tomorrow, maybe his colourful face would scare the recruits into paying attention. But after weeks of training and that grueling fight, he thought he’d earned another day of recuperation.

Of course, his plans flew out the window when there was a knock on his door later in the afternoon. To Brock’s great surprise, the person who stood smiling pleasantly in the corridor was none other than the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Gear up, Rumlow. Your first mission with the Avengers is gonna start in–", Coulson threw a glance at his watch, “six minutes."

“And what exactly does ‘gear up’ mean for me now?", Brock asked dryly. He doubted that S.H.I.E.L.D. would give him any weapons. At the same time, he had to suppress a little nervous shiver. He’d thought that they would give him a little more time to heal before putting him back in the field.

Coulson smiled blandly. “Go to the hangar, you’ll find your gear there. And if you don’t want to meet the Avengers in your underwear, I’d hurry."

“Yes, Sir."

It was always nice how much exasperation you could put in these two words. As soon as Coulson had dismissed him with a nod, Brock jogged to the hangar at a swift pace. There, he stood forlornly in front of the glass doors. He’d forgotten that his card didn’t open them. Lacking other options, Brock knocked on the glass. After the second knock, a tall man approached from the other side of the glass and opened the door. Obviously, Agent Mackenzie had been expecting him.

“Dunno how I got stuck with this", the big man grumbled as he passed Brock a bunch of fabric. It was a tack vest, albeit with empty pockets, and a pair of equally empty cargo pants. The agent pointed at a set of combat boots on the floor. “Those are for you, too."

“Thank you, Agent Mackenzie", Brock said while already slipping out of his S.H.I.E.L.D. issued jumper. From what little he’d gathered from Jemma’s stories over the last months, Mackenzie was one of Fitz’s friends, and seemed to have a lot of sway with the other mechanics, so it probably paid to be nice to him.

Brock got changed as quickly as he could, but he was still tying up his boots when yellow lights started flashing in the hangar, accompanied by a loud honking and a gradual opening of the roof.

“That’ll be them", Mackenzie said, and Brock hurriedly finished his boots and straightened up.

Sure enough, a newest-generation Quinjet was descending through the opening in the roof. Brock didn’t miss the fact that the jet was turning slightly in order to keep him in the sights of its two guns. _It feels so good to be trusted._ When the jet had landed, he could see that Barton was sitting at the controls, with Romanoff on the co-pilot seat. She pressed a button, and her voice came through the jet’s speakers: “Get in."

“See you later, then", Brock said to Mackenzie, half polite phrase, half prayer, before trotting around the jet to the ramp in its back. When he got in, he saw that Captain Rogers was waiting for him. His face was forbidding, and he didn’t say anything when he pointed to one of the seats. Equally silent, Brock strapped in and watched Rogers hit the button that closed the ramp back up. There was a slight increase in the noise from the repulsors, then the jet lifted off. Rogers held onto one of the storage nets to keep his balance, never letting Brock out of his sight. It lasted for maybe two minutes, but Brock was hard pressed to hold Rogers’ accusing gaze without flinching. At least when he’d been fighting the man, he’d been able to concentrate on other things than Rogers’ opinion of him.

Finally, Barton’s voice came over the comms: “Cruising altitude reached."

Brock opened his straps, they felt too much like restraints for his comfort. While he was still debating wheather or not he should get up to divest Rogers of the height advantage, the door to the cockpit opened and Barton and Romanoff came out. Now Brock _definitely_ wanted to stand.

The Black Widow watched him with an amused expression, as if she knew exactly what he was doing, and why. She probably did, actually. “Rumlow. Looking good today. Are you ready to start earning your keep?" Brock just scowled at her silently. Romanoff’s grin widened. “Luckily for you, your confession actually contained some new info. There’s a handful of bases that neither S.H.I.E.L.D. nor we had found so far, and you’ll help us clear them out. Isn’t that great?"

“Wonderful."

“I thought so. We’re starting in Egypt, the base in Asyut. You said you’ve been there four times?"

“That’s right."

“How would you have tried to take the base?", Rogers butted in.

“Depends on who I could’ve taken with me."

“Your old STRIKE team."

Brock huffed out a short laugh. “Well, back in the days when I _had_ my STRIKE team, the commander of the base knew that I was Hydra. If I was ordered to take over the base ’cause, say, Hydra suspected him of having gone rogue... I would’ve gotten someone higher up the food chain to give us a plausible reason to be at the base. Walk in openly, throw my weight around a bit so no one gets suspicious ’cause we’re too nice – and at the first opportunity, send two of my people with knockout gas to the central ventilation unit. Lock everyone up, collect the weapons and all the intel from the servers, wait for orders from my superiors."

Rogers was looking at him with crossed arms. “And if the commander already knew that Hydra was onto him?"

This time, Brock took a little longer to answer. “They’re in a bunker below a front company, a small factory that produces handbags. Most of the employees are women, and most of _them_ wear a burka. So I'd have stolen the ID card of an employee and sent in Rayez. She spoke perfect Arabic and had both the tan and the eye colour to match. I would've gotten her to attach a transponder close to the control room, then my IT specialist could've hacked the security system, opened the factory's delivery door in the back yard, looped the relevant security cameras. Then the same thing: knockout gas, probably with some shooting in case someone spots us." _Fuck_, it hurt to speak of his team in the past tense.

“Close enough", Rogers decided with a shrug. “Congratulations, Rumlow, you don’t seem to be shitting us – yet."

“And what’s the actual plan?"

“We’ll meet with Stark twenty miles out from Asyut. He’ll get a drone on the roof of the building and hack the system remotely. Then the three of us will go in, with you as our guide, and Stark’ll keep an eye on everything. After that: knockout gas."

“Do you have any schematics of the base?", Brock asked neutrally.

It was Barton who answered this time. “Only a rough outline of the size of the thing, from a GPR measurement one of Tony’s satellites did."

“If you want, I can try to draw up a sketch from what I remember."

“Go ahead", Barton said and activated a holo-display.

The Widow held up a hand to stop Brock from stepping over to the display immediately. Then she tossed him a little bag. Brock caught it suspiciously.

“Open it", Romanoff told him mockingly. “It’s not gonna explode."

Keeping half an eye on the three Avengers anyway, Brock opened the bag and found a small hand mirror and a tub of make-up matching his skin tone. _What?_ Was she trying to make fun of his battered state?

“If we don’t want to get arrested before the mission even really starts, you’ll have to hide those bruises."

Damn her for being right. In the Quinjet, they would reach Egypt in roughly ten hours. Brock had enough experience with mission-related make-up that concealing his bruises only took a few minutes. After that, he turned to the holo-display and dug through his memory of the base, trying to make it match the outline of the GPR result. He felt the Avengers’ eyes on the back of his neck the whole time and had to keep himself from tensing up. _Keep your act together, Rumlow. This is not your first time in enemy hands. And technically, they aren’t even the enemy._

When Brock was done after about five hours, he knew that he should probably catch some sleep while he had the chance. Still, the feeling of being in hostile territory meant that he couldn’t relax enough. Instead, he sat in his seat and just... waited, while the other three worked on whatever it was superheroes did when they had to kill time.

Finally, Barton announced: “We’re approaching Egypt now. Better get back on the stick."

He and Romanoff returned to the cockpit, while Brock strapped in. You never knew, in Egyptian airspace. Rogers had done the same and was going over something on his tablet. In Brock’s opinion, the man had adjusted remarkably well to life in the twenty-first century. Living in the same building as Tony Stark might have played a large role.

It was a few more minutes until something hit the roof of the Quinjet. Brock was straightening instinctively, but Rogers waved him off. “That’s just Stark."

And really, the hatch opened and the iconic metal suit came in. Once the hatch had closed again and the noise of the wind had died down, Stark opened his visor. “Cap. Tarzan. Good to see you replaced your loincloth."

Brock didn’t deign that with an answer.

“We’re three minutes out from our landing spot. My drone is already in place and transmitting... now." Stark waved at the holo-display, which minimized Brock’s map to show the feeds of several security cameras.

Rogers stared at them intently. “Rumlow, can you pin-point where on your map these are located?"

“Some of ’em." Brock got back up, enlarged the map and started moving the feeds to where he thought they came from. Some were easy, like the loading dock, the elevator, the mess and the quarters where he and his comrades had slept back then. Others were harder, especially the ones that showed nondescript corridors. The Quinjet landed with a soft bump, and Barton and Romanoff returned from the cockpit.

“That’s the best I can do. And some of them might be wrong."

“Well, your comm devices all have trackers, so if I see you on one of these, I’ll know where you are. And of course I’m updating the map with the data from both the trackers and the cameras." Stark handed Brock a small in-ear transponder and an equally tiny camera to attach to his collar.

Brock sighed inwardly. It seemed he would be heavily monitored on this mission. Not really something he liked, but he’d more or less expected it. “I assume I’ll go in empty-handed?"

“Not quite. You’ll have a gas mask", Romanoff said brightly while giving him one of said masks.

Stark huffed. “Oh come on, don’t be a spoilsport. It’s no fun if he doesn’t have any way of betraying you. Here, take some of the knockout gas. And, let’s see... Lock picks! And handcuffs. Never know when those might come in handy." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Brock was starting to understand why, back in the days before Hydra’s coming-out, people had always tried to stay away from missions involving Tony Stark. But the ‘handcuffs’ he was handing out to all four of them were actually pretty neat, they were thin as zip-ties but made from something extremely durable that tightened and hardened the more you pulled on it. Brock got a whole bundle of them, seeing as they would have to restrain some forty-odd prisoners.

Then it was time for them to leave the jet and for Stark to work his magic. Barton had landed the cloaked Quinjet in the fenced courtyard of a deserted car repair shop, a place where hopefully no one would walk into the invisible plane. Apart from Stark, who stayed inside the jet for now, everyone had donned wide, light brown clothes that served the twin purpose of concealing their gear and allowing them to blend in better. Romanoff was hiding her eye-catching red hair underneath a headscarf. It was 9 a.m. local time and the streets were buzzing with people. The group approached the factory on foot, unobtrusively scanning the area for suspicious figures.

“Stark, we’re in position", Rogers murmured quietly into his comms.

“All right. Wait another minute, there’s a truck leaving just now..." And really, there was a vehicle rolling off the courtyard. Stark’s voice continued: “Hokay, waiting for the workers to clear the area... Come on, shoo! Yep, that’s it, empty field of view of the camera. Starting the loop – now."

On Rogers’ signal, the group walked nonchalantly onto the courtyard and made their way over to the loading dock. The door wasn’t locked. Once inside, they quickly dashed into the staircase, where they took off their disguise in order to be more mobile. Hand signals were all that was needed to guide them down into the basement and towards the heart of the ventilation system. They ran into a few soldiers after the third corner, but Romanoff took them out so quickly they couldn’t raise an alarm. However, everyone knew that now it would only be a matter of time until someone found the unconscious men and all hell would break lose. Rogers started jogging down the corridor, the other three close on his heels.

“Woops, there you are", Stark suddenly muttered in their ears. “Found one of the cameras Rumlow didn’t know about. You were only there for a split second before I looped it, let’s hope Hydra doesn’t watch their own feeds too carefully."

Brock wasn’t so sure about that. At least there was no immediate blare of sirens, so no one hindered them as they proceeded. Shortly after, they had reached the service corridor. “It has to be one of these doors", Brock explained to the others, who quickly spread out. Romanoff saw herself attacked by two brooms falling out of an overstuffed closet, Barton rudely interrupted two janitors playing cards in a small recreation room, and Rogers opened a door to the loud noise of large ventilation units. While Barton zip-tied the two stunned men, the other three had a look at the machinery.

“This is one of the main pipes", Brock declared confidently, getting out his lockpicks to open the service flap.

Romanoff had slunk around to other side, her sharp eyes flying over metal and insulation materials. “And this is another one."

“Um, guys? I’m picking up a weird signal. Maybe you should keep an eye out while I check it...", Stark’s voice recommended. Rogers and Barton looked at each other, then took up position at the door, keeping both sides of the corridor in their view.

By now, Brock had managed to open the metal flap. “Masks", he ordered curtly. Not checking to see if the Avengers followed his advice (they did – they didn’t like Brock, but they were meant to work as a team, here), Brock activated the two gas cartridges that Stark had given him, threw them into the pipe and closed the flap back up. On the other side of the room, he heard Romanoff do the same.

“All done. Let’s go collect some Hydra agents", the petite woman quipped.

Rogers nodded. “We’ll split up. You and Clint go left, Rumlow and I go right."

Nobody argued. The gas was invisible, so they just had to hope that it was spreading as intended. If Brock remembered correctly, he and Rogers were going in the direction of the barracks. When they neared the next corner, they could hear shouts. _Either someone did see us, or they are feeling the effects of the gas_, Brock thought. It seemed to be the latter, because he and Rogers were met by the sight of several heavily swaying Hydra agents. While Rogers still seemed to decide whether he should wait for the gas to take full effect or just knock them out by hand, their comms cracked to life once more.

“Get out of there, right now. I decoded the signal, it was a self-destruct sequence. I think I’m detecting several active explosives in the compound. I don’t know how much time you have left, so you better run. I’m evacuating the factory."

They didn’t waste any time discussing – before Stark had even finished speaking, Rogers and Brock had started running. Rogers had studied the map Brock had drawn up, so they both knew roughly in which direction they had to go. When they were unsure, they asked Stark for directions, who knew their positions thanks to his tracking equipment. On the way, the two men passed several unconscious Hydra agents. No time to worry about them right now. Brock hated working against an unknown time limit. Luckily, the base wasn’t too large, and soon they were back in the corridors they had come from. Just one more turn and they would be at the staircase. There it was. From above, they could hear the sounds of a fire alarm, probably Stark’s doing. They started sprinting up the stairs – there were loud noises from behind them – the stairs, the walls, everything was shaking – Brock felt a strong hand grip his arm – he was falling, sliding, stopping – darkness, and the sound of settling debris.

Brock blinked, the ringing in his ears slowly subsiding, and took stock of himself. The gas mask was still in place. He had a few scrapes, but nothing hurt too badly. He was crouching in a very awkward position, rubble digging into his knees, and something warm and solid was pressed to his left side. “Captain?"

“I managed to hold up part of the stairway with my shield. Let’s see if it’s settled yet."

Rogers’ voice was distorted by his mask. The warm presence on Brock’s left moved very slowly. Some dust rained down, but there were no sounds of shifting stones. A sigh in the darkness. “Good. Wasn’t looking forward to holding it up until the others get us out. Speaking of the others... Tony? Are you there?"

“I’m good, and so are Barton and Romanoff. Where are you?"

“The stairs. They collapsed, Rumlow and I got trapped in the rubble. You’ll have to dig us out."

The comms were silent for a moment. Then Stark came back: “Sure. After New York, that’ll be a piece of cake. Let me just organize some equipment. How long can you hold out?"

“For now, everything seems to be stable. But I’m not sure how much air we have."

“All right, hurry it is. Hang on, we’ll get you out!"

When the transmission cut off again, Brock could hear cloth rustling, then a quiet click and suddenly a pale glow appeared. Rogers must have brought a chemical light. As Brock could now see, he and the Captain were caught in a small cave of maybe three by five feet, which came up just to Roger’s shoulder at its highest point. The super soldier used his light to inspect the room, then carefully sat down on the uneven ground. Meanwhile, Brock had also shifted into a slightly more comfortable position. Rogers put the glow stick on the ground between the two of them, then he turned to Brock with a guarded look in his eyes.

_Here we go_, Brock thought morosely. _Trapped in a small place with a suspicious Avenger. What could possibly go wrong?_

As he’d expected, Rogers started talking. “I haven’t come across a self-destructing base since I went into the ice. How did it slip your mind that this one was special?"

“I didn’t know", Brock answered truthfully.

“You didn’t know?"

“No. I was told that Hydra stopped doing that in the sixties, when they decided their research was too valuable to blow it up every time someone came knocking."

It was clear that Captain Rogers was still not convinced. “But it’s awfully convenient that this one collapses with three Avengers inside."

“Look, I see what you’re getting at. But what do you want me to say? There’s nothing I can do to prove that I didn’t have anything to do with it."

Apparently, Rogers agreed, because he didn’t push him further. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. After a while, Rogers spoke up.

“I read your confession."

Brock swallowed hard, glad that the gas mask was hiding his face. “Yeah?"

“Mh-hm. Kinda makes it hard to understand why the judge granted the soulmate appeal. But anyway, that’s not what I wanted to ask about." Rogers was silent for a moment, hunting for the right words. “You mentioned that you were Bucky’s handler on several missions."

Brock needed a moment to parse that. _Right. Bucky Barnes, also known as Sergeant James Barnes, also known as the Asset. Wish I’d known_ that _a few years earlier. Might have made a difference. Or maybe not, who knows._ “That’s right."

“Do you know what happened to him?"

_Ah._ Part of being a good tactician was knowing your enemy’s weaknesses. The way that Rogers was trying to hide the hope in his eyes, the tone of his voice as he asked the question, they told Brock that he’d just stumbled upon a very, very big weakness. But exploiting it now wouldn’t do any good. Instead, Brock filed the information away for later and decided to be honest. “I’m afraid not", he said quietly. “I heard that Barnes went MIA during Insight, but I was pretty much out of the loop at that time."

“No rumours?"

“Not at the medical facility. You gotta understand, the Winter Soldier was more a myth than anything else. There were only a handful of us who even knew he was Hydra."

Rogers managed to hide his disappointment pretty well. Maybe because it was swallowed by anger. “A handful of you, huh? And how exactly do you justify what you did to him?"

Brock sighed. “By the time I first met him, I’d stopped questioning my superiors. If it served the Cause, they could ask anything of me. So of course I expected the same from everyone else."

Rogers shook his head, his disgust obvious despite the gas mask. Silence fell once more. Brock knew he should keep his mouth shut, he _knew_ it, but it was really hard to bear Captain America’s contempt without cracking. After a few minutes, he burst out: “I meant what I said in that elevator."

Rogers arched an eyebrow at him.

“That it wasn’t personal. I didn’t have anything against _you_ in particular, not even the values you stand for. You can’t argue against freedom and justice, can you? I just thought that Hydra had a better chance of making these things come true than the system you stood for. And since it was clear you would stand in Hydra’s way, you were... unavoidable collateral."

Rogers huffed disbelievingly. “You thought _Hydra_ would create freedom and justice? You worked for them for almost twenty years, you should have known better."

Brock glanced away. “They said the deaths and the chaos were necessary sacrifices for the greater good." Rogers just _looked_ at him until Brock gave in. “Okay, okay, you’re right. I was a coward. I didn’t _want_ to see their true face. It was easier to tell myself that we were all working towards a worthy goal than to admit to myself that I’d become a murderer and a terrorist. There, you happy now?"

“You are a very sad excuse of a man, Rumlow, and I don’t understand how someone as brilliant as Agent Simmons can be your soulmate."

Brock swallowed hard. “I’m wondering that myself, sometimes."

Rogers scrutinized him very thoroughly. It wasn’t as if he had much else to do. Finally, he noted: “You really like her."

“Yes." Brock sighed. “I thought that was obvious when I decided to hand my life over to S.H.I.E.L.D. rather than try and kidnap her."

Rogers made a noncommital noise. “That could’ve had tactical reasons. Coulson’s known for taking care of his people, you wouldn’t have been able to keep her hidden for long. When it comes down to it, your choice was between S.H.I.E.L.D. and death."

Brock couldn’t really argue with Rogers’ observations. If he was honest, these considerations had been exactly the reason why he’d decided to play along on Catalina Island. _Looks like I've just made the same mistake a lot of enemy agents make exactly once: I've forgotten that behind all the righteousness, Rogers is a damn competent soldier._ Brock looked down at his hands and smiled ruefully, not that Rogers would be able to see it through the gas mask.

__

“You’re right. Initially, those were exactly my thoughts. But once I got to know her better, I was very glad about that decision. And –" He looked back up at Rogers. “If I don’t screw it up, I have a chance at an actual life now. Not as a fugitive from the law, not having to constantly look over my shoulder, but as part of a team and with my soulmate by my side. Why should I endanger that?"

__

“Because you might still be loyal to a terrorist organization that routinely asks its members to die for its cause?"

__

Brock laughed bitterly. “I killed half the staff of a Hydra medical center and then a whole retrieval team. If you’re really wondering so badly about my loyalty, I’m sure you can find reports of that somewhere in Hydra’s files. You recovered a lot of them over the last two years, didn’t you?"

__

“We did", Rogers confirmed pensively. “It’s actually not a terrible idea. I might ask Stark later to check if he can find your name in there."

__

They lapsed into silence. It was hard to say if the air was really getting thinner, of it that was only Brock’s imagination. It didn’t help that he still had to breathe through a gas mask. After a while, their comms came back online.

__

“Hey, you guys still alive?"

__

“Yes, Stark."

__

“Good. I got equipment, we’ll start to dig you out now. If you hear something close to you start to shift, yell so we can stop."

__

What followed were three of the less pleasant hours in Brock’s life. By now, he was pretty sure that the oxigen in their small cave was getting used up, and the noises coming from the groaning concrete around him weren’t very reassuring. Near the end, Rogers got back up and pressed his shield against the ceiling to prevent it from falling down and crushing them. Then, finally, the slab moved and sunlight filtered in. Brock immediately ripped off his gas mask and took a deep breath. Stark’s visor was the first thing he saw through the opening.

__

“Hey guys. Found you", the robotic voice said cheerily. But because he wasn’t a complete ass, Stark then landed between Brock and Rogers and gave them both a lift out of the deep hole. Once they were back outside, Brock was not surprised to see large numbers of people hectically running around, some of them clearly police or fire brigade, others civilians who also helped to sort through the rubble.

__

“Did any of the Hydra members make it outside?", Rogers asked seriously.

__

“No", Romanoff answered from where she’d materialized seemingly out of thin air. “All the workers from the factory are safe, though. Stark activated the fire alarm, and luckily nobody thought it was a drill."

__

“Maybe they suspected that something was off about their workplace", Stark commented dryly. “I mean, all those soldiers must have gotten in and out, somehow, and I don’t think they looked like people designing handbags."

__

“We still have to try and look for survivors", Rogers said.

__

Stark nodded. “I’m coordinating with the locals, my suit is pretty good at cutting up rubble. Did a few upgrades after New York. But maybe the four of you can fly home. I assume Coulson will want to debrief Alice, here."

__

He was probably right. God, Brock could only hope that Coulson wouldn’t suspect him of having lured the Avengers into a trap, too.

__

“But if you don’t want Maintenance to throw a fit, I suggest you two get the dust off, first." Stark threw them a meaningful glance.

__

When Brock looked down, he noticed that he was completely covered in grey cement dust, and Rogers didn’t look any better. So the two of them cleaned up as well as they could without any water, then they followed Barton and Romanoff back to the Quinjet. Just before they reached it, Brock said quietly: “Thanks for saving my life."

__

Rogers stopped and turned around. He looked at Brock seriously. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for your soulmate."

__

“I know. Still, thanks."

__

Rogers nodded curtly before entering the jet. Brock followed him and hit the button to close the ramp. They left quickly. Once they were over the ocean, Barton and Romanoff joined them in the back of the jet. While the archer perched on top of some crates, Romanoff came over to Brock and held out her hand.

__

“The camera."

__

Brock wordlessly handed over the tiny piece of equipment. Romanoff stuck it into a little adapter connected to the onboard electronics, and images started to flash on the holo-display.

__

“Barton thinks something about the base was fishy", she explained.

__

“You mean besides the fact that it fell down around our ears?", Rogers asked sarcastically.

__

The archer nodded. “I noticed that there were two different types of card readers next to the doors."

__

Romanoff had been scanning through the video while the others talked and now moved some stills to the screen. Barton was right.

__

Rogers frowned. “Correct me if I got this wrong, but – if you have people with different access rights, can’t you store that on their cards?"

__

“That’s exactly why this is strange. It looks like there might have been two separate organizations using the place", Barton explained.

__

Now everyone looked at Brock. Rogers crossed his arms. “Anything you want to add?"

__

“I can’t imagine Hydra would share a base with someone else. That’s the whole point of being a secret organization."

__

Romanoff shrugged. “We hit them pretty hard in the last couple of years, and S.H.I.E.L.D. also made an impact. Maybe they ran out of funds and had to rent out some space."

__

“It’s possible, I guess, but – not very probable", Brock amended.

__

Rogers still stared at Brock with an unreadable expression. “It would help to know if the access was always controled like this, or if it’s a recent development."

__

Brock was thinking hard. “I can’t remember if it was this way when I was here before. The first three times, I was part of the security detail for two of the higher-ups who wanted to negotiate with some of the local warlords. I only saw the barracks, the mess, and one of the offices back then. The last time, I went to one of their engineering labs to deliver some tech I’d aquired during a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission in the area. But I never had to open any doors myself, the common areas aren’t locked and someone had to show me the way to the lab anyway."

__

“But did you get the impression that there were parts of the base where you wouldn’t have been welcome?"

__

Brock couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Rogers, the first rule to survive in Hydra is _Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong_. Spend too much time hanging around the labs and you might end up a specimen yourself." Then he sobered. “No, seriously. Unless you were at your home base, you only went where your superior officers sent you. And at your home base, it was similar to S.H.I.E.L.D.: Even if you had the clearance level to go everywhere, you mostly stuck to the lab if you were a scientist or to the gym and range if you were muscle. I guess you two didn’t hang around labs much, either, right?"

__

Brock’s last few words were aimed at Barton and Romanoff, who shook their heads. Rogers’ frown was still in place.

__

“Then how come you could draw up a map of the place?"

__

“Well, for one, I’m sure Stark will be happy to confirm that the map wasn’t very accurate. And secondly, I’m not _just_ muscle, I’m also a spy. Ignoring the rules and nosing around as much as I can is basically part of the job description."

__

“But you still don’t remember if there were card readers that didn’t match your Hydra card?"

__

Brock had to suppress a sigh. When he (thought he) had caught a scent, Rogers could be as tenacious as a damn blood hound. “Let me rephrase that. Nosing around _inconspicuously_ is part of the job desription. I was mainly interested in things like how big their armory was or how much personnel they had. So I walked along a few corridors where I didn’t have any business to be, tried to guess what might be behind the doors, but I didn’t actually try to get in."

__

“Sounds plausible", Barton chimed in, which seemed to shut Rogers up, at least for the moment. Instead of grilling Brock further, the Captain asked Romanoff to send him the recording and shifted his concentration to his tablet. Brock took a seat and leaned back against the hull of the plane. He knew the Avengers wouldn’t trust him with a tablet or anything else he might use to contact the outside world. With nothing else to do, he could have been catching up on some sleep, but he still didn’t feel safe enough in the presence of these three dangerous, suspicious people. So he dosed for most of the flight, and felt pretty disoriented when they finally landed. Coulson was already waiting in the hangar.

__

“Debrief, my office, now."

__

Apparently, the Avengers had sent him the video recording and also talked to him while they were in the air, they only waved at Coulson before taking off again. The Director asked Brock the same type of questions as Rogers had, and Brock gave similar answers. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Coulson dismissed him. It was 6 p.m., so Brock quickly went to the mess to grab some food he could take back to his room. He was attracting quite a few weird glances, probably because dust was still clinging to him in many places and the make-up had been rubbed off enough to reveal his bruises. He didn’t care. When he’d finally shut the door behind him, Brock allowed himself a deep sigh. Shower first, food later. Much cleaner and at least slightly more relaxed, Brock inhaled his dinner, then fell into bed. Should he try to contact Jemma somehow? Had anyone even told her he was on a mission? Brock yawned. He’d been awake for thirty-five hours now, and he was _knackered_. Moments like this really drove home the fact that he wasn’t twenty anymore. _I’ll try and find her tomorrow. I wouldn’t be good company now, anyway._ That decided, Brock closed his eyes and was immediately out like a light. He didn’t even notice when there was a knock on his door later in the evening.

__


	9. Kowalski

The next morning, Brock decided he had to do something about his communication problems. It rankled that he couldn’t let Jemma know he was fine, couldn’t even leave her a message in case his next mission would interfere with any of their – dates? Meetings? Whatever they were.

What Brock had said to Rogers the day before about the base in Asyut was also true about this base: He knew he wasn’t welcome in most places, but he’d still managed to find out what was where. That’s why he knew that all the labs were in the part of the compound that was the furthest from the containment area, far away from any possibly raging prisoners. The corridors connecting these labs were not publicly accessible. In a rare moment of forgetting about the information ban, Jemma had told him that the lead scientists (including her) had been assigned rooms in the same part of the base, apparently as an incentive to actually go to sleep every now and again. Unfortunately, that meant Brock couldn’t simply wait in the hallway to catch her as she went from her room to the lab. So he had to ambush someone whose office _was_ publicly accessible.

The Director, the head of the facility management (a guy named Koenig that Brock had overheard weird rumours about), some admin staff and many of the tech support people had their offices in a part of the base where some light shafts allowed you a glimpse at the sky. Fittingly, Jemma’s friend Skye was among these lucky few. Brock had seen her name on one of the doorplates the first time he’d been summoned by Coulson. When he arrived, the door was slightly ajar, and light spilled into the corridor. He knocked.

“Yes?"

Brock pushed the door open but – knowing people still didn’t trust him (and how bad he looked with the mess of blue bruises in his face) – opted to stop inside the door frame. When he saw Skye grabbing something underneath her desk, either a gun or a panic button, he knew it had been the right decision. Keeping his hands open and hanging by his sides, he said as calmly as he could:

“Sorry for barging in unannounced, but I wondered if you could help me contact Jemma."

Skye blinked. “What?"

“I spent the last two days on a mission, and I don’t know how to let her know I’m fine."

“Oh." Her posture relaxed a bit, but her hand was still underneath the table. “But why did you come to me?"

“Because I’m not looking for someone who’d pass a message once. I’m looking for a permanent solution."

“A permanent solution." She sounded doubtful, and Brock realized that might have been a poor word choice.

“Look. You of all people probably understand why Coulson doesn’t trust me with anything electronic. But since we don’t have a pneumatic tube system, I need some other way of communicating with Jemma. It doesn’t even have to be instantaneous, just – some way to leave her a message in case I spontaneously have to leave for a few days."

Skye very slowly retracted her hand from underneath the desk. She studied him with a guarded expression. “Why should I help you?"

Irrationally, that question stung. Brock knew that the young woman had no reason to trust him, she’d done the background checks for his confession and knew each and every one of his bad deeds. But she was Jemma’s best friend, and since he’d recently been getting closer and closer to his soulmate, he’d unconsciously assumed some of this trust might rub off on her. Apparently, he’d been wrong. But Brock was good at getting people to do what he wanted.

“Because you like Jemma, and by doing this, you mainly help her. I mean, she’s had to search half the base a few times when I wasn’t where she thought I would be, and if she can’t find me _anywhere_ – you’ve known her for a long time, you know how compassionate she is. If she didn’t accidentally come across Coulson the day before yesterday, she probably worried all night."

_Gotcha._ Brock could see Skye’s expression soften. It hadn’t even been a lie, after all, this was also _his_ motivation for being this tenacious. Finally, she nodded.

“All right, I’ll see what I can do. And I will call her to let her know you’re back now."

Brock allowed himself a smile. “Thank you. Tell her I’m back to my normal schedule today?"

Having accomplished this, Brock felt surprisingly lighter. Ever so slowly, things were looking up for him. He was going on missions again, and if Skye really found a solution to his communication problem, he could almost pretend to be a normal member of S.H.I.E.L.D. again.

_Shit, I jinxed it_, Brock thought resignedly when he rounded the corner and saw Agent Marsten waiting for him. The lawyer was carrying a garment bag in his left hand and a shoebox in his right. Coolly, he remarked: “For someone wearing a tracker, you’re a remarkably hard man to find, Private Consultant Rumlow."

“Agent Marsten. What can I do for you?"

“As I hope you remember, one of the conditions of your soulmate appeal was a monthly meeting with a parole officer. Since you initially spent all your time in our custody, the court granted us a moratorium of two months, but the third month is almost over now and your parole officer called yesterday to make an appointment. Considering the nature of your agreement with the Avengers, Agent Coulson thought it prudent to get the meeting out of the way as soon as possible, which is why he arranged a meeting for today. You have–", he looked at his watch, an expensive thing that probably cost as much as most of the cars Brock had owned so far, “seven minutes to get changed, then you will be escorted to the court house."

Brock blinked. He had not expected that. But it was his job to react quickly to the unexpected. “Why don’t you come in and brief me on the parole officer while I get changed?"

“I would love to, but Director Coulson neglected to inform me of his identity. I can assure you, however, that S.H.I.E.L.D. vetted him and that you are cleared to answer all his questions truthfully."

“Good to know", Brock said sarcastically as he took the bag and the box from Marsten. “Will I be picked up here?"

“Yes. Good luck, Mister Rumlow."

Brock wasn’t sure if the man was being honest or ironic. He nodded in thanks anyway, then fumbled open his door and hurriedly got changed. The new room had come with the great luxury of a small mirror in the bathroom, which meant that Brock knew how noticeable his bruises still were. They had only just started changing from purple to green and made him look as if he’d been in a bad bar fight. Not the best way to impress a parole officer. A pity that he’d left Romanoff’s make-up in the Quinjet. Well, nothing to be done about it now. When Brock left his room, four armed guards were waiting in the corridor. Brock looked at them questioningly.

“Let me guess. Hands?"

The team leader’s only reply was to hold up a pair of heavy manacles. With a sigh, Brock let him cuff his hands. This was really getting old. At least they let him walk to the garage without blindfolding him, that only came when he’d taken a seat in an unmarked black minivan. The drive was mind-numbingly boring, nobody spoke. Brock idly wondered if Jemma or Woo had been informed of his change in schedule. Probably not. He really hoped that Skye would find a way for him to contact Jemma directly.

When they finally arrived and the blindfold was removed, Brock realized that they had come to the same building as for his hearing. Apparently, the four guards knew where they were supposed to go, because this time nobody picked them up in the garage. They took the elevator up to the tenth floor, then guided him through a softly carpeted hallway to a sturdy wooden door. The armed men seemed strangely out of place in the posh environment. The leader knocked on the door.

“Come in!"

The leader opened the door and entered first, the other three followed behind Brock. Inside, filing cabinets lined the wall, and an expensive looking desk was completely covered in paper. The man behind the chair looked even more out of place than the S.H.I.E.L.D. guards. He was about Brock’s age, white, with a slight paunch, dressed in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, his shoulder-long brown hair tied back into a ponytail. If Brock had met him in a bar, he would have guessed that the man was an ageing rock musician. Brock’s guard seemed equally perplexed.

“Mister Kowalski?"

Brock was instantly alert. It was quite a common family name, true, but he’d been trained not to rely on coincidences.

The officer smiled pleasantly but his sharp gaze rested a moment too long on Brock’s tense posture and his visible bruises. “The one and only. I assume you’ve brought me Brock Rumlow?"

“Yes, Sir."

“Good. Then you may wait outside in the corridor."

“Sir, we’ve been instructed not to let him out of our sight."

Kowalski’s smile widened slightly as he focussed his attention on the guard. “Are you afraid he might escape? There are no convenient air ducts in this place, and I doubt he would survive a jump out the window."

“He could attack you, Sir."

“Really? And what would that gain him?" The officer seemed to be enjoying this. Brock was watching the exchange attentively. It told him a lot about the man’s attitude and would maybe allow him to guess if he was related to the other Kowalski he knew. “Tell me, what would happen if he killed me?"

“We'd arrest him, his soulmate plea would be redacted, and he would go to prison for the rest of his life", the guard answered reluctantly. He was probably catching on to what Kowalski was doing.

“Not a smart move to kill me, then. And if he tried to take me as a hostage? What could he possibly demand?"

“His soulmate, a clean getaway, maybe some weapons if he planned to continue Hydra’s work."

“Hm, sounds more tempting at first. But from what I understand, his soulmate’s pretty important to S.H.I.E.L.D., so kidnapping her would ultimately lead to his arrest, too. Unless he’s suicidal and decides to get rid of her, but you don’t have him on suicide watch and so far he’s made every effort to stay alive, so it also doesn’t seem very likely."

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent stared at Kowalski suspiciously. “Why do you want to get rid of us so badly?"

“Because I’ve found that people tend to answer much more openly when there are less witnesses", the officer replied pleasantly.

The guard scanned his face for any falsehood. When he couldn’t find any, he sighed. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Come on everyone, outside."

After the door had shut, Kowalski came around his desk and held out his hand. It was slightly awkward to shake while handcuffed. Kowalski smiled anyway and declared: “Nice to finally meet you in person. Please, have a seat."

The man had balls, that much was apparent. That didn’t really make it _less_ likely that he was related to the other important Kowalski in Brock’s life, though. When they were looking at each other across the large desk, the officer leaned back in his chair, folded his hands on top of his belly and declared: “As you’ve probably guessed, I’m not that big on formalities. You can simply call me Kowalski if I can call you Rumlow."

“Sure", Brock agreed. He thought he’d kept both his expression and his voice neutral, but Kowalski frowned and inclined his head.

“Something’s bugging you. Come on, spit it out so we can start off with a clean slate."

_Don’t let yourself be tricked by his looks. He’s very perceptive, and smart. Careful, Rumlow._ If the man really was Hydra, showing that Brock had seen through his game could be dangerous. But if he wasn’t, Brock would do well to get on his good side. So he decided to take a risk. He casually shifted in his seat, ready to jump up and over the table in case the other man drew a weapon.

“Any relation to a Colonel Kowalski in the US Army?"

Brock watched him carefully, but there was no spark of recognition in Kowalski’s eyes, no telltale twitch, just slight confusion. “Not that I know of. Why? He important to you?"

Brock must have looked pretty incredulous, because Kowalski sighed. “I knew I should have read your file more thoroughly. You might have wondered why I agreed to meet you on a Saturday, yeah? I’ll admit that we’re quite short on staff recently, so I only read the summary and some details that I thought were relevant for our work. Come on, tell me. What about him?"

“He was the one who recruited me for Hydra", Brock finally answered.

Kowalski’s eyes widened. “Oh. Yes, I see why that might be awkward. No, really, never heard of him."

“Okay", Brock answered reluctantly.

“I’m sure if Hydra wanted to get to you somehow, they’d find someone better suited than me", the other man joked. “They must have people who are better with weapons, for example. Or any type of physical confrontation, really."

“Sometimes, the feather is more powerful than the sword", Brock objected. “They had quite a few politicians in their pockets."

“True", Kowalski admitted. “I followed their cases in the news. No soulmate appeals there, though." Kowalski leaned forward slightly and, with a significant glance at Brock’s bruises, asked: “But let’s get back to you, shall we? Tell me, how have the last three months been for you? Gotten into any fights recently?"

From what Brock had seen so far, his parole officer was nothing like Marsten or the other S.H.I.E.L.D. lawyers. He wouldn’t want to hear a detailed factual recounting of the last eleven weeks. No, he seemed like someone who'd prefer to meet in a bar rather than an office, and who would probably read much more between the lines than you actually wanted to reveal. But Marsten had pretty much said that Kowalski was cleared to know _everything_, and Brock knew that he had to get this man on his side. So he decided to be honest.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. makes me work for it", Brock started, and Kowalski listened attentively. “_Coulson_ makes me work for it. He kept me locked up in a cell overnight for the first month, until I’d proven I knew the new S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook by heart and promised him to stick to the new rules. I still only have access rights for a small part of the base, and the curfew’s for my room now instead of a cell. Except for the two trips here, I’ve only left the base once, and that was with the Avengers. They are supposed to get me into some situations where I can prove I’ve well and truly switched sides now, and keep an eye on me at the same time. Captain Rogers made me pass his own test first, though, he’s understandably not very fond of me. That was four days ago, and it’s where I got the bruises."

“I see. I read about your history with the Captain and his friends."

“It will take time to regain their trust, I knew that before I agreed to this deal."

“And what about your soulmate?"

Brock allowed himself a small smile. Kowalski was supposed to see him as a real human being, after all, and the whole soulmate appeal rested on the fact that Jemma vouched for Brock. It would be very bad indeed if they didn’t get along.

“We’re slowly getting to know each other. She’s a scientist and has quite a lot of work, but we try to meet every evening. She said she hopes I’ll be allowed to meet her family for Christmas."

Kowalski’s eyebrows rose. “Meet the parents, huh? That make you scared?"

“Well, what do you think?", Brock huffed. “Jemma doesn’t want to tell them I’m a terrorist, only that I work for S.H.I.E.L.D. like her. But these kinds of things have a tendency to come out sooner or later."

“Depends on how close the relationship is. But yes, if you believe Hollywood, some former Hydra colleague of yours will probably come knockin’ just when the turkey’s been put on the table."

“If that happens, I’ll just have to deal with it", Brock sighed.

Kowalski nodded, grinning slightly. “I trust you’ll keep the collateral to a minimum." Then he sobered. “So you’re telling me you’re not regretting your decision yet?"

“No", Brock answered instantly. “Thanks to Jemma, I have the chance to repay at least some of my debts. If I’d stayed on the run, I would have probably kept making debts instead. I mean, as a merc I tried not to accept any job that was too horrible, but still – beggars can’t be choosers and all that. Hiding from every security agency out there’s pretty expensive."

Kowalski nodded again, then studied him pensively. “There were some people in Hydra that you were close to, right?"

That question took Brock by surprise. He stared at the officer for a few moments, wondering if this was a trick question. Then he decided that honesty was probably the best choice. “Yes...?"

“Do you know what happened to them?"

Brock couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath. _Dispatch in his ear, telling him that Pierce’s office had been compromised by fucking Romanoff of all people– Nothing but static on STRIKE’s internal channel– Images of the Triskelion crashing down around him–_

“Not with certainty. But I assume most of them died in the Triskelion."

“You never tried to find them?", Kowalski asked incredulously.

Brock’s heart started beating faster, his breathing hitched. Damn it, Brock hadn’t expected this topic to come up, would never have thought that it might get to him like this even if he had anticipated it. But he had to answer the man.

“They were loyal to Hydra. Did it say in the summary that I left Hydra because they didn’t just heal me after the Triskelion but also tested their newest torture drugs on me? Right, then you can probably guess why I didn’t want to go back to Hydra. So if I'd managed to find any of them, they would've been forced to choose between me and what they’d believed in for years. And, to be honest, I was afraid they’d choose Hydra."

Fuck, the mere thought of Jack pointing a gun at him– Brock swallowed hard. _He’d_ been the one who got Jack into Hydra in the first place, he’d preached for years that they had to stay loyal to the Cause no matter the cost, he should be _proud_ if Jack managed to put the Cause above personal feelings. But it would also mean that he’d never had any real friends, and wasn’t that depressing? Better to pretend they’d really been a band of brothers, as the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. had sometimes said only half-jokingly, than to be faced with the ugly truth.

Brock realized he’d been staring at the desk too long. He looked up and found Kowalski watching him intently. The officer nodded to himself.

“I think you’ll do. I’ll see you after Christmas, Rumlow."

Brock blinked. “That’s it?"

Then he almost kicked himself. He should be happy Kowalski was satisfied by whatever he thought he’d seen, what the fuck was wrong with him? Why was thinking about his former team suddenly affecting him this much?

Kowalski looked at him knowingly. “Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime and you’ll be fine."

The man got up and walked to the door, and Brock scrambled to follow him. They shook hands once more, then Kowalski opened the door and told the guards with a slight grin: “See, we’re fine. You can take him back now. I’ll see you all in four weeks."

The guards only replied with a polite “Yes, Sir", apparently they’d recovered from their previous defeat. Not completely useless, then. They escorted Brock back to the car. Blindfolded and surrounded by silent guards, Brock spent the trip trying not to think about Jack’s broken body buried in the Triskelion’s smoldering remains. Maybe he’d made it out, somehow. Maybe. A man was allowed to dream, right?

  
* ∼ *

Jemma was already in the lab, distractedly reading through some of the first DNA sequencing results that had arrived overnight, when her phone rang. It was Skye.

“Hey, Jemma. You’ll never guess who just strolled into my office."

“Huh?"

“Your soulmate."

Jemma’s heart started beating faster. “Oh my goodness, is he okay? I couldn’t find him anywhere the last two days."

“Yeah, he’s fine. Apparently, he was on a mission."

“Wow. That was fast", Jemma murmured.

“What was that?"

“I said, that was fast. He only passed Captain Rogers’ test three days ago. Did he say where he went?"

“No. He asked if Fitz and I could come up with some way for you two to communicate that’s not violating any of Coulson’s terms."

Jemma blinked in surprise. “That’s... actually a really good idea. I’ve been running around like a headless chicken trying to find him every time he deviated from his normal schedule."

“Yeah, that. He also asked me to tell you he’s back to his schedule today. So if you don’t want to wait for us to find a solution..."

“Okay, good. Thanks, Skye."

After she’d hung up, Jemma returned to her work feeling much lighter than before. If she was honest with herself, she _had_ been worried. Well, at least her results looked promising. Fitz and Brock had been the first to (knowingly or unknowingly) volunteer genetic material, and their genomes were the only ones the external lab had analyzed so far. A preliminary comparison of her own genome with Fitz’s, Brock’s and the generic one published by the Human Genome Project had revealed thirteen mutations shared by Jemma, her friend and her soulmate. If the genomes of the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents showed the same mutations, Jemma might have found the soulmate gene she was looking for.

Very satisfied, Jemma spontaneously decided to pick up her soulmate to celebrate. It was a quarter to twelve, so he should be in the gym with Woo and his students. Maybe Brock would like to have lunch with her? However, when Jemma entered the gym a few minutes later, Brock wasn’t there.

“Hello, Simmons. If you’re looking for Rumlow, I haven’t seen him for five days", Woo greeted Jemma after he’d sent the junior agents off to the showers. “I mean, you told me he passed Rogers’ test and that he wanted to take two days off, but I have no idea what happened after. He’s not in Medical, I checked, so I dunno where he could be."

“I was told the Avengers took him on a mission the last two days, but he was supposed to be back to his normal schedule today."

“Well, he obviously isn’t. I guess you could ask the Director..."

Jemma sighed. “My friends are working on some way for us to communicate. This is getting really annoying."

“You don’t say", Woo said ironically. “The recruits keep asking me when he’ll be back. It’s pretty obvious who’s their favourite teacher."

“They’re fresh enough to still think it’s exciting that he used to be one of the bad guys", Jemma tried to console the other agent.

It probably didn’t escape Woo that Jemma was only a few years older than most of the junior agents. However, it was widely known how badly she’d been betrayed by someone who should have been her friend but turned out to be Hydra, so Woo didn’t question her words. Instead, he went for humour. “Thanks for saying that, but I know I’m not the coolest agent out there. It’s okay, my ego can cope."

“Anyway, I’ll let you know if I find him", Jemma promised, and went back to work.

After dinner, she gave it another try. When she knocked on Brock’s door, she almost didn’t expect him to be there. But to her surprise, the door opened.

“Jemma." Brock seemed– contrite? Sad? “Woo told me you were looking for me. Sorry I wasn’t there."

“What happened?"

“Did Skye talk to you?"

Jemma nodded.

“Marsten ambushed me on my way back from her office. Told me it was time for my first meeting with the parole officer, and that I had five minutes to get ready. I only came back in the afternoon."

“Oh." Of course Jemma knew the conditions the court had placed on Brock’s soulmate plea, but with Captain Rogers’ test looming over them she had completely forgotten about the required regular meetings. She studied her soulmate.

“And how was it? Does she – he? – seem nice?"

Brock huffed and sat down heavily on his bed. He rubbed his face tiredly, then looked up at Jemma. “I don’t know if nice is the right word. His name’s Kowalski, that was the first shock, but he swore he’s not related to the Colonel who recruited me for Hydra. And he’s..." Brock hesitated. “Very perceptive. Asked some questions I didn’t expect."

“Like what?", Jemma asked carefully, sitting down next to Brock.

He was silent for a long moment. Then, not looking at her, he answered quietly: “He asked about people I was close to in Hydra."

Jemma’s breath caught. Somehow, the thought that Brock might have had _friends_ in Hydra had never occurred to her. Maybe because the Hydra agents she’d met had always seemed closer to killer robots than actual human beings. _With the exception of the one person who pretended to be our friend and then turned out to be a monster_, her traitorous brain objected. _Nope, not thinking about that right now. Back on topic, Simmons!_

“When Bobbi interviewed you – that never came up, did it?"

Brock shook his head. “No. I guess Coulson didn’t think it was relevant."

His voice went quite hoarse on the last word. Jemma could have kicked herself. Here she was, happily spending time with her friends every Friday and even working in the same room as her closest and oldest friend every single day, and she hadn’t even _asked_ Brock if he _had_ any friends. Hesitatingly, Jemma put her hand over his, and he finally looked at her.

“And what did you tell him?"

Brock sighed. “That I think most of them died in the Triskelion, but I never checked."

Jemma winced. “Oh. Do you... want to talk about it?"

“I’m not sure", Brock answered honestly. He turned his hand so that he could grab hers and pensively rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. He looked at their clasped hands for a moment, then met Jemma’s gaze. “But if not to you, I’ll never say this to anyone, and I think – I think they’ve earned at least this much."

Still hesitatingly, Brock started telling Jemma about his team. How he’d been a simple member of STRIKE Team Alpha at first, then got asked by Fury to become the team’s Commander when his predecessor was killed in action. How even back then, half the team had already been Hydra. How Brock had made sure that every time a member retired or got killed, the replacement was Hydra, until everyone was loyal to the same cause. Then he told her the names of the people he ended up working with for several years, some of their little quirks and spleens. How they'd saved each other’s lives several times but lost two people nevertheless. And finally, how all of them had been given different tasks in the Triskelion on the day Project Insight was going to be launched.

And again and again, one name: Jack Rollins. Jemma remembered sitting in Skye’s office and hearing Brock tell Bobbi how he’d recruited the man for Hydra very early in Brock’s own career. As she listened to Brock describe how he and Rollins had risen in the ranks together, both in S.H.I.E.L.D. and in Hydra, she couldn’t help but see the similarity between them, and her and Fitz. So when Brock eventually fell silent, Jemma asked cautiously: “Do you know what happened to Rollins?"

Brock’s grip on her hand tightened and his face looked pained. “Pierce asked me to send my best people to deal with the World Security Council. So Rollins was there when Romanoff revealed herself. He was good, but no one has a chance against her. I assume she killed him. And even if he somehow survived that confrontation – you know what happened to the Triskelion."

“I’m sorry." And she really was. Jemma still sometimes had nightmares about dragging Fitz to the water surface, being half-sure that he wouldn’t survive, that moment of wild _hope_ when Fury appeared in the chopper. In their case, Fitz had willingly sacrificed himself because it was him or her, and he’d told Jemma he loved her. That had already weighed heavily enough on her conscience, but at least it hadn’t been her choice. Brock had ordered his friend to be in Pierce’s office. Granted, he hadn’t known what would happen, but still – he must feel like it was very much his fault his friend had died.

“You know what the worst part is?", Brock asked after a while. He sounded strangely choked.

Jemma shook her head.

“A part of me is glad he died. If he'd survived, Hydra would've definitely ordered him to take me out when I defected. It’s just how they operate. At least this way, I never had to find out if he would've chosen me or Hydra."

Jemma had to blink away tears. “Brock..."

Suddenly, she found herself engulfed in a hug. Brock was breathing heavily against her hair. Hesitatingly, she put her arms around his torso, drawing soothing circles on his back. After a while, his hold relaxed a little, and he muttered: “Shit. Sorry, Jemma. Didn’t think it would still affect me like that."

“Brock, they might have belonged to prison, but they were your _friends_. You have every right to mourn them."

“You’re too nice for this agency, Jemma", Brock replied with a small chuckle, and reluctantly let go of her.

“So people tell me. I think they are wrong."

To her satisfaction, Brock smiled a little. Good. She didn’t like to see him sad.

“Maybe– maybe I could ask Skye one day if she’d check the casualty lists for me. I know they couldn’t identify all the remains, but I might at least get some closure."

“That’s a good idea", Jemma agreed. “Although maybe not in the next few days. We want her to fix us a phone first, or whatever she comes up with."

That got Brock’s smile to widen even more. “It'd be great if I could contact you somehow. I feel like S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers have a competition going who kidnaps me more often and on shorter notice."

“Well, I hope they leave you in peace for a few days. You still look like hell."

Brock laughed, even though it still sounded a bit brittle. “Yeah, Kowalski was a little suspicious. I bet he thought I tried to break out or something. He wasn’t very surprised when I told him it was Rogers’ fault."

“Is there anything I can do to help?"

“Kiss it better?" Judging from the sudden widening of his eyes, Brock regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth. Jemma didn’t understand why. He should’ve noticed by now that she knew what she wanted and didn’t let herself be pushed to do things she didn’t want to, relationship-wise at least. Well, it would be cruel to leave him hanging. Especially after what he’d just told her. So she just grinned, climbed on his lap and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

“Like this?"

Brock looked startled, didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Jemma’s grin widened, and she kissed him more thoroughly. “Or like this?"

When Brock let himself be pushed backwards and deepened the kiss, Jemma spent a short moment to thank Coulson for not putting a camera in this room. Then she stopped thinking, and just enjoyed the chance to be close to her soulmate.

  
* ∼ *

They didn’t do more than kiss that evening. Jemma knew that Brock’s bruises must still be tender, and she didn’t want him to suffer through their first time. Soon, she told herself. He’d certainly not seemed disinclined.

“You’re in an awfully good mood this morning", Fitz grumbled.

Jemma decided not to tell him the real reason why. Brock was still a sore subject between them, and Fitz had been a little irritable the last few days anyway. The headaches were back.

“I got the results of your and Brock’s genome yesterday, and I found thirteen mutations compared to the standard genome that you two have in common with me. If it checks out with the other agents’ results, I might have found the soulmate gene."

Fitz perked up slightly. “Okay. You’re allowed to be in a good mood, then. I’m basically done with reverse engineering Hydra’s pseudo-Chitauri weapons, so today I’ll start with that comms gadget Skye promised you."

“Thank you, Fitz, you’re the best."

Of course, the task wasn’t a very big challenge for someone of Fitz’s calibre. He vanished for most of the morning in the Playground’s old tech archives (also known as “the place where we store all the stuff that’s terribly outdated but that we don’t want to trash because it was fucking expensive"), tinkering at his lab bench in the afternoon, and plonked two small devices on Jemma’s table just before it was time for dinner.

“This should work", he declared confidently.

“What is it?"

“It’s based on a pair of walkie-talkies. They have a large enough range to cover the whole base, but you can’t really reach anyone outside the base. And the frequencies aren’t used by any of our other tech, so no risk of interfering with anyone else’s communication."

“But if they’re just walkie-talkies, doesn’t that mean we have to carry them all the time or risk missing when the other one calls?"

Fitz grinned. “That’s why you asked me and not just the manager of the tech archive for help. Look: When you press this button, it works like a normal walkie-talkie, where you can talk while holding the button, and when you let go and Rumlow presses the button on his side, he can answer. But if you press this button instead, what you say is recorded with date and time on Rumlow’s device on a little mp3-player I fitted inside the casing. And the other way around, of course. Oh, and of course I included top of the notch encryption so even if someone does listen in on this frequency band, they won’t be able to understand anything."

“Fitz, you’re brilliant."

“I know", her friend grinned. “I call it the owl post."

“Owl post", Jemma deadpanned.

Fitz’s grin widened. “Yup. And since the owl post isn’t going to be mass-produced, it won’t share the fate of the Night-Night Gun. You’ll just have to live with the name."

Jemma only shook her head in fond exasperation. At least Brock didn’t seem to mind the nerdy name when Jemma showed him the owl post that evening. He was just thankful that he’d finally be able to communicate with her directly. As a test, Jemma went back to her room, and Brock used the owl post to finally tell her about his mission in Egypt. She was glad that he couldn’t hear her not-so-quietly freaking out when he told her he’d been buried in the collapsed base.

When Jemma had her voice under control again, she pressed the button and said: “Well, there’s one good thing. At least you know that Captain Rogers won’t use these missions to quietly get rid of you."

There was a long pause on the other side. Finally, the owl post came back to life with a crackle. “Yes, there’s that. And Romanoff didn’t stab me in the back either, so – I guess you could call it a success."

When Jemma woke up the next morning, she saw that Brock had left her a message at 4 a.m. The Avengers had taken him on another mission, this one to Panama. He either didn’t know or didn’t want to tell her more, but asked her to tell Woo he wouldn’t be there today. Fitz was happy when Jemma told him the owl post had already paid off.

A few days ago, Coulson had sent Jemma the reports of three missions where her new sedative had been used and asked her to evaluate if it was performing as intended. Since it would be a few days until the gene results of the other soulmate volunteers would arrive, Jemma had a little spare time on her hands and decided to tackle that task today. So she went to collect blood samples of the people who’d been exposed to her sedative from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s bio-bank and spent the rest of the day analyzing them. The results looked very good. Interestingly, one of the captured criminals was Raina, who’d finally made one mistake too many and been lured by a Gifted who was secretly already working with S.H.I.E.L.D. Jemma was glad that woman was off the streets now.

Shortly after ten, just as Jemma had been about to start her nighttime routine, the owl post on her bedstand crackled to life.

“Hey, Jemma. Are you still awake?"

He sounded quieter than during their tests the day before. Was he trying not to wake her up in case she was already asleep? That was... kind of endearing, really. Jemma grinned.

“Yup. Are you back in one peace?"

She could hear the tail-end of a chuckle in Brock’s voice when he answered. “Yes. This mission was much easier than the last. Apparently, MI5 asked S.H.I.E.L.D. for help, and Coulson forwarded the request to the Avengers because he couldn’t spare anyone on such short notice."

“MI5?", Jemma asked incredulously. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t cooperate often with the British secret service.

“Yes. Do you remember that incident with Thor and the UFO in Greenwich?"

Now it was Jemma’s turn to chuckle. “Of course. Our team was sent to clean up afterwards."

“Oh. Well, either you didn’t do a very good job, or someone was simply at the scene faster, because some larger quantities of alien material appeared in Chile. I don’t know why MI5 felt responsible, maybe because the original incident happened on British soil, but they managed to detain the people selling the stuff and to recover most of the material. Then they tried to secretly send it back to Britain hidden on a normal civilian container ship. Only, Hydra found out and wanted to steal it."

“So MI5 wanted you to steal it back?"

“What they actually wanted was for us to prevent the theft, but we came too late for that. We managed to follow them back to their base, though, so that was even better. It was just a small one, very close to the Panama Canal, that I’d never heard of before. I assume the South America branch used it for this kind of theft regularly. Anyway, I’m not allowed to use any kind of weapon yet, so my only job was to secure the prisoners once the Avengers where through with them. Not very dangerous."

“Call me prissy, but I’m kind of glad when you’re not in mortal danger _every_ day."

This time, Brock let her hear his laugh. Jemma decided that she liked the sound.

“I know you’re not allowed to tell me details, but – how was your day?"

“Good. I’m making progress on several fronts right now. I think you’re going to like some of my current work once I can tell you about it."

“Okay, got the hint: I’ll try to get everyone to trust me faster."

“Well, you’ve already managed to convince me, so that’s a start, isn’t it?"

Brock’s voice sounded suspiciously rough when he said: “It’s more than just a start, Jemma. It’s the most important step of all."


	10. SkyHeroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait – closed kindergarten + attempting to do home office = a lot of work in the evenings and less time to write fanfiction... But I think we can all use some distractions in these difficult times, so I promise to update whenever I can.
> 
> The ten chapters posted up to now are approximately half of what I've already written, and I'm not done writing yet ;-). So there's a lot more to come, just as soon as I get around to editing it all. In the meantime, I hope you all stay healthy. Take care!

The next day, both Jemma and Fitz were requested to attend a mission briefing in one of the larger conference rooms. Jemma was excited, but after his latest experiences, Fitz really didn’t want to go. Since he’d been feeling a little unwell for the last few days, he somehow managed to convince Medical to declare him unfit for missions for the next five days. Jemma grumbled a little, but ultimately didn’t want to push her friend. So she went alone. On her way, she ran into Hunter.

“Hey, you’re back!", Jemma exclaimed happily.

“Missed me, love?", he asked with a wink as he opened the door for her.

Bemused, Jemma shook her head. “You’re uncorrigible."

“Well, I heard your soulmate’s no longer under 24/7 camera surveillance, so maybe you’re finally getting some... Ow!"

“Hunter, you pig!", Skye exclaimed incredulously from where she’d appeared in front of them.

_Wow. If Coulson put them both on this case, it must be really big._ Jemma looked around. There were almost twenty people present. She hastily took a seat as Coulson came in and strode to the front of the room.

“Good morning everybody. Today’s mission is about this woman." The image of a middle-aged Hispanic woman was projected onto the wall. “Carla Herrera is an engineer who used to work for Hammer Industries. In the right circles, she was not-so-secretly considered the only reason Hammer Industries managed to get anything working at all. She quit after the Hammer Drones fiasco and founded her own small company, SkyHeroes."

Someone snickered, and Coulson threw a stern glance in the person’s direction. The sound immediately stopped. Coulson continued: “Despite her previous bad experiences, Herrera is convinced that drones are the future of military technolody, and the DoD apparently agrees with her enough to ensure her funding. Two years ago, SkyHeroes bought a biotechnology startup called Viragen that specialized in herbicides. Rumour has it that Herrera wants to engineer drones that can automatically distribute herbicides over enemy territory or battle grounds. Think Agent Orange on a very large scale."

Uncomfortable shifting in the audience. “Last night, Herrera disappeared. We assume that she was taken from her house because that’s where the body of her bodyguard was found. There was also some rather eye-catching evidence."

Coulson pressed a button on his presenter, and the slide with both companies’ logos was replaced with crime scene photographs. The first ones showed a large, expensive house with meticulously styled garden. The white walls now sported hastily sprayed messages such as “SkyHeroes = SkyMurderers" or “Swords into ploughshares!". On the red tiles of the patio, someone with non-negligible artistic talent had painted a crude version of the famous 1972 photograph of the crying Napalm girl. It was large enough that a news helicopter (or, hah, a reporter equipped with a drone and a small camera) would probably be able to pick it up and use it to illustrate a front-page article. Not stupid, from a propagandistic point of view.

A click, and the pictures changed to the inside of the house. The bodyguard had obviously been moved after his death, he sat in an armchair in the living room with the TV remote in his hand. Someone had drawn crosshairs on the TV with a thick black pen, and used the same pen to draw a Hitler-moustache on the dead man’s face. There was some foam coming from his mouth.

“Heinrich Schuster, German expat, thirty-seven, has been living in the U.S. for the last nine years. According to the preliminary autopsy report, he died from ingestion of a cocktail of three of Viragen’s herbicides."

Coulson let his gaze sweep over the assembled agents. “Up to this point, everything looks quite clear. An engineer who develops questionable weapons gets kidnapped and/or killed by militant peace activists who don’t mind killing her bodyguard, too. Normally, that would be a case for the local police. However, a few things didn’t add up. Firstly, Schuster was a member of the German special forces before emigrating, it can’t have been easy to subdue him. The autopsy revealed some defensive wounds on his arms and torso. There must have been a fight in the dining room, there was lots of broken china and some destroyed chairs. And in the wreckage, the police found this."

On the wall, there was a close-up of a button. It very clearly showed an engraved octopus. Jemma sighed. She’d had enough of Hydra to last her a lifetime, thanks. Around her, several people were muttering. Coulson nodded slightly.

“Yes, Hydra. We know that they are interested in Chitauri weapons technology, and it seems like they now want to get into the drone business, too. Apparently without us knowing about it, which is why they went to such lengths to cover their tracks here. Our current theory is that Hydra either want to convince Herrera to work for them, or that their main goal was to steal her research. It is an open secret in her company that she never keeps any copies of her really sensitive work in the office, there’s always only one copy which she has locked in a safe at her home. However, this is where we get lucky: According to her secretary, Herrera had a change of heart only last week and moved all her work from her home to her office. So we are now expecting an attack on her company."

Coulson switched to the next slide, which showed a two-storied office building with an attached manufacturing hall. Next to the photograph, there was an aerial that depicted the company’s neighbourhood, an industrial area with lots of similar buildings. A small note at the bottom of the page showed the location of the place, an address in Boston.

“We have three main goals, here: Firstly, the research can’t fall into Hydra’s hands. Secondly, we need to find out where they keep Herrera and get her back. And thirdly, we want to detain as many Hydra members as possible. Any questions up to this point?"

Skye raised her hand. “So – should we treat this Herrera woman as one of the good guys or one of the bad guys?"

Coulson sighed. “As Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., I’m not qualified to judge the DoD’s decisions." Which told everyone in the room what Coulson really thought of that drone research. “Regardless of what we think of her work, she is an innocent before the law and has been kidnapped by Hydra, who are most definitely the bad guys, so we have to do anything in our power to free her. Does everybody agree with me?"

Affirmative noises from the crowd. Coulson seemed satisfied. “Good. Then let’s come to the details. Up to now, both the police and our own people have been very discreet, and the first news channels have already reported an attack on Herrera by peace activists. So hopefully, Hydra hasn’t noticed yet that we’ve caught on to them. This means they will probably opt for a subtle break-in rather than an open assault on the company. That’s good for us because it places less danger on the employees and makes it easier to hide our own agents. Therefore, we have to make sure not to let Hydra notice our presence. So this is what we’ll do..."

Coulson scanned the crowd, then frowned. “Where’s Agent Fitz?"

“He’s sick, Sir, Medical declared him unfit for field work", Jemma explained quickly.

Coulson pinched his lips. “But would he be able to communicate with you remotely?"

“Yes, I think so."

“Good. Then _you_ will be sent to SkyHeroes as an external consultant today. We need to assess how far Herrera’s research has progessed and how dangerous it would be in Hydra’s hands. We will arrange a meeting between you and SkyHeroes’ lead engineer, who will be instructed to quietly pass all the material from Herrera’s safe to you. That way, Hydra will be unable to obtain the material even if they manage to slip in unnoticed. Which we will of course try to prevent by taking appropriate measures. Agent Skye, you will be tasked with taking over SkyHeroes’ security system and monitoring..."

Fifteen minutes later, the meeting was over and Jemma hurried back to the lab. She had twenty minutes until departure. Luckily, Fitz still had the glasses they’d used for the case of Akela Amador, the former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with the cybernetic eye implant. That saved Jemma a lot of thinking now, and meant that she had enough time to send a short message to Brock. After she and Fitz had tested that both the audio and video feeds of the glasses still worked, and Jemma had found her personalized, near-invisible in-ear headphones at the bottom of her “mission stuff drawer", she made her way to the hangar.

The flight to Boston wasn’t long, but long enough to let Jemma start worrying. She knew she wasn’t very good at undercover missions, but luckily this one wouldn’t be really undercover. She’d go as a scientist, only under an assumed name and hiding the real reason for her visit. At least Skye’s and Hunter’s banter distracted her a little. She’d missed going on missions with her friends. A pity that Fitz hadn’t come.

Then they arrived in Boston, and most of the field agents left. They’d scheduled Jemma’s meeting for 1 p.m. to give everyone enough time to get into position. One of the low-level field agents posed as a taxi driver and brought Jemma to the SkyHeroes site. The porter immediately let her in when she showed her (fake) ID, and a nice lady accompanied her to one of the upstairs offices. There, she was met by a fifty-something man in a grey suit and with a mobile phone at his ear. He ended the call as quickly as possible, then held out his hand with an apologetic smile.

“David Briscoe, nice to meet you. Sorry for the wait, but it seems like today all the world wants an interview with me. As if I know more than them about what happened to Carla." He sighed. “Of course, your agency told me some things, but... Well, better not to talk about that in the corridor. Come in, come in, I promised your boss I’d tell you about our work."

Briscoe spent the next ten minutes reeling off the standard presentation that he’d probably given to dozens of possible investors. Lots of shiny pictures, patriotic promises of how their work would Revolutionize Warfare and Protect American Interests Worldwide, promising sales and performance numbers. The whole time, Fitz made sarcastic comments in her ear. Jemma had to fight to keep a straight face.

“Mr. Briscoe, thank you for that overview. But I think you are aware that that’s not the real reason for my visit."

Briscoe looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Yes, of course. But – this is very sensitive material. If it falls into the hands of our competitors, we’re done."

“You know I work for the government, and that it is precisely our aim to keep your work _out_ of the hands of anyone else. I promise we will keep it safe until Ms. Herrera is back."

The engineer seemed to be slightly reassured by Jemma’s faith that his boss _would_ be back. He nodded.

“Alright. I’ll give you the documents. Follow me, please."

Herrera’s office was just across the hallway, sporting the nicer view and some large modern prints on the walls. The safe looked expensive, it was a Swiss brand and clearly bolted to the floor. Briscoe asked Jemma to turn around and entered a long code on the number pad. A soft beeping, and the heavy metal door opened. The engineer took a stack of folded papers, probably blueprints judging by their size, an external hard drive and several flash drives out of the safe and placed them on the large desk.

“Jemma, can you unfold the blueprints and hold the glasses over them so I can take pictures?", Fitz requested in her ear.

“Sure", Jemma replied without thinking, and got a very strange look from Briscoe. “Sorry, talking to my colleague in my ear. I will have to take some pictures to speed up the analysis process."

“Um, okay? Go ahead?", the engineer replied uneasily.

Jemma unfolded the first large sheet of paper, then climbed up on a chair to take a picture from above. That was when the door opened behind her. Jemma probably wouldn’t even have noticed anything out of the ordinary if she hadn’t seen Briscoe freeze from the corner of her eyes. Her head whipped around.

Ward.

Suddenly, Jemma’s heart rate skyrocketed. She was about to yell for help when she noticed the sign Ward was holding. ‘Don’t react or he will die.’ That was when she realized that Ward wasn’t alone, a second man in a standard blue suit stood next to him and pointed a gun at Briscoe, while a woman with very similar stature as Jemma stayed slightly behind them. Jemma froze.

Ward held up a second sign: ‘Hand the glasses to my colleague without letting Fitz notice anything.’

Jemma’s hands shook. This was not good, not good at all. One shout and S.H.I.E.L.D. would storm the place, but then Briscoe (and maybe herself) would be dead and Ward would probably still manage to escape. But if she complied – would Ward kill them anyway? Or would he kidnap her, too? _Why_ hadn’t she brought any tracker besides the one in the glasses?

Ward seemed to get impatient. The other guy took the safety off his gun. Jemma swallowed hard and made a decision. “Fitz, did you get a good picture?"

“Yes, you can open the next one now."

“Okay, let me just climb down–"

Jemma put the glasses on the table, carefully ensuring that they were pointed at the wall. Then she stepped away from the table and let the other woman unfold the blueprint and pick up the glasses. She couldn’t read the expression on Ward’s face as he crossed the short distance between them and, with a move faster than Jemma could follow, pressed a hand to her mouth and a needle into her neck. The last thing she noticed before darkness claimed her was that someone picked her up with surprising gentleness.

When Jemma woke up again, there was a stale taste in her mouth and her neck hurt. Probably because she’d been sitting with her chin resting on her chest for some time. Jemma’s eyes flew open. She was sitting in a swivel chair, her hands cuffed to the armrests, in an otherwise almost empty room. Dust motes in the corners, dirty windows and leftover imprints and discolorations of the formerly-beige carpet told her that she must be in an abandoned office. Besides her own chair, the only other furniture in the room were a foldable chair and table that had been set up close to the window. And that was where her captor waited for her to wake up. Or rather, had waited.

“I guess congratulations are in order", Ward said to his laptop. Then he looked at Jemma. “I didn’t know you’d found your soulmate."

Jemma froze. How did he know...? Oh. He’d probably pushed up her sleeves when he cuffed her to the chair and seen the mark on her lower arm. But that wasn’t really relevant right now.

“What do you want, Ward?", Jemma asked coldly.

“What? I’m not allowed to have a little chat with an old friend?" Before Jemma could tell him that while they might be many things, _friends_ wasn’t any of the words that came to her mind, Ward turned his laptop towards her. “The mark on your arm doesn’t happen to have anything to do with this interesting little picture, does it?"

On Ward’s screen, there was a grainy image of Iron Man, Natasha Romanoff, Captain America and Brock, the last two covered in grey cement dust, in front of a collapsed factory building. It must have been taken in Egypt five days ago. It was very clear from everybody’s posture that Brock was not considered an enemy by the other three.

Jemma had never been very good at hiding emotions. Or lying. And Ward knew it. He grinned. “When I saw this, I wondered what might make someone like Natasha Romanoff ignore a grudge. And the only reasonable answer was Coulson. So I dug around a bit and heard someone mention a soulmate appeal of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and a high-ranking former member of Hydra. I wouldn’t have put any money on the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent being _you_, though."

“Ward, what do you want?", Jemma asked again. While she might not be good at lying, she could at least try to steer the conversation into a less dangerous direction. If anything involving Ward could be considered “less dangerous”.

Ward looked as if he was about to give her another flippant answer when his laptop started beeping. He clapped it shut and got up.

“Isn’t it obvious? You and I are playing diversion so that my people can get away clean with the data. Was nice talking to you, Simmons, but I gotta go."

With that, he disappeared out the door. Jemma could only stare after him disbelievingly. “What...?"

Then she heard crashes from elsewhere in the building. As loudly as she could, she yelled: “In here! I’m here!"

Less than a minute later, Hunter stormed into the room with his gun drawn. “Jemma! You okay, luv?", he asked with a relieved smile.

“I’m fine. Ward just ran out the door, he said I was a diversion so that his people could get away clean."

Hunter swore, then rapidly talked into his comm before freeing her from the chair. “Let’s hope the others caught him."

  
* ∼ *

Brock was having a pretty good day. The training with Woo and his ducklings had gone very well, Brock was confident that their first training mission, scheduled for the following week, would be a success. His week-old bruises were slowly fading from green to yellow and didn’t hurt anymore. And, best of all: his soulmate had told him last night that she trusted him. So naturally, this was the moment that life decided to throw him a curveball.

When Brock returned to his room after the training, he saw that there was a message in the owl post. Was Jemma back from her mission already? As Brock pressed play, Fitz’s nervous voice filled his room.

“Hey, Rumlow. Just – don’t worry, okay? We think we have a lead on their location, so we should have her back soon. I’ll call you when I know more, okay?"

It was amazing how quickly one could switch from happy to terrified, Brock mused detachedly as he pressed the talk-button.

“Fitz, are you there? I just got your message, what happened?"

Brock had to fight not to use any stronger language. He didn’t know the engineer that well, but he was Jemma’s best friend and therefore his opinion of Brock was important. Even in emergency situations as this, Brock’s brain couldn’t stop thinking about long-term tactics.

Twenty nerve-wrecking seconds later, the owl post came to life.

“Rumlow. Erm – how much do you know?"

“All I know is that Jemma went on a mission today."

“Oh." Silence.

Brock was known for his calm competence in the field. A small part of his brain analyzed interestedly that this calm was leaving him now that it was _his soulmate_ who was in danger.

“Fitz. What. Happened?"

Another short silence. Then, hectically: “You see, it was supposed to be quite safe, we thought Hydra would only arrive after darkness. But apparently they were already hidden in the building before we arrived, and therefore – WardkidnappedJemma."

“Did you just say that Grant Ward, one of the most wanted members of Hydra, kidnapped my soulmate?"

“Yes?"

Brock took a deep breath. Jemma had not told him which town, or hey, even which country the mission would take place in. Judging by the timing of Fitz’s original message, it was pretty likely that they were somewhere in the US. Still, even if he stole a Quinjet it would probably take him a few hours to arrive there. And he would go in completely blind, unless he managed to convince Fitz to come with him. Also, S.H.I.E.L.D. might get the wrong idea and think he'd been in league with Ward the whole time, potentially sending a STRIKE team after him or, even worse, calling the Avengers. It made no sense whatsoever for him to try and save her himself. That realization didn’t do anything to lessen his urge to run out of the room and acquire a weapon, though. _Breathe, Rumlow. More intel first._

“Do you know if he harmed her?"

“We think not. There’s one witness, he got ICERed but woke up half an hour ago, and he said that Ward injected something in her neck to knock her out and then carried her away."

Fitz actually sounded more angry than worried. Was that because he hated Ward so much? Or because he unconsciously thought that Ward wouldn’t harm Jemma unnecessarily? Brock hoped for the latter.

“And you have a lead on their position?"

“Yes. Once Skye figured out which car they used to get away, she managed to track it through traffic cameras, and narrowed down its location to one block. There’s an abandoned office building in that block, so that’s where we think Ward brought her. The others are getting into position to storm the building right now."

Brock blinked. As he’d told Jemma on the island, he’d never really met Grand Ward. However, before the Hydra uprising the man had had quite a reputation within the agency. If he really wanted to kidnap Jemma, why would he choose such a bad getaway strategy?

“Fitz..."

There was a sigh on the other end of the connection. “Let me guess. If you’re anything like the other field agents I know, you can’t sit around idly while Jemma’s in danger. But I can’t let you into the labs. Would you like to meet me in one of the common rooms?"

Brock had to give it to Fitz, the engineer was fast. Less than ten minutes later, both were hunched over Fitz’s laptop, which had an open phone line to Skye.

“You said they were in Boston, right?", Brock asked quietly. When Fitz nodded, he followed up with: “Do you have the floor plans of the building?"

“Sure."

A few seconds of typing, and the plans appeared on the screen. Brock stared at them intently, then asked Fitz to show him the plan of the basement.

“Shit. See that there? That’s a door to the neighbouring building. They probably share an underground garage, or a central warm water system. Did S.H.I.E.L.D. surround that other building, too?"

Before Fitz could answer, Skye’s voice came over the speakers. “They’re going in now. No resistance so far..."

A few seconds of tense silence. Brock’s heart was beating uncharacteristically fast. Then they heard the magic words: “They’ve found her! Hunter’s found her. She’s fine. Nobody’s seen Ward yet, but Jemma’s fine."

Brock and Fitz looked at each other, relief clear on their faces. They listened as Skye recounted what happened afterwards: Hunter accompanied Jemma back to the airport while the other agents combed the building. Ward had disappeared – probably through the basement, as Skye reconstructed later. There had been no agents stationed at the neighbouring buildings.

Finally, Skye told them that the plane would arrive back at base in two hours.

“Good. Want to meet in the hangar when they arrive?", Fitz asked.

Brock sighed. “I’m not cleared to go in there."

“Then how did the Avengers pick you up for your missions?", Fitz asked with a frown.

“Those times, Coulson explicitly told me to go to the hangar, and Agent Mackenzie let me in when I knocked."

“I’m sure Coulson will make an exception in this case. Meet me in front of the doors, then, and I’ll let you in."

“Thanks, Fitz", Brock said seriously. The signs of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s mistrust still rankled, no matter how justified they were. But at least Fitz didn’t seem worried about Brock betraying him any time soon.

Now that the immediate danger had passed, Brock was able to reflect on his own behaviour. He hadn’t gone off and done anything rash, which was good, but he also hadn’t been able to completely keep his cool. The last time he’d felt even remotely like that had been when an arms dealer who was completely high on some experimental drugs had held a knife to Jack’s throat. And even then the panic hadn’t been quite as acute. Although maybe that was because back then, he’d been able to _do something_ about the danger. After all, when Magnusson had been about to kill Jemma on Catalina Island, Brock had reacted in a very calm and controlled manner. _But back then, I didn’t really know her that well. I didn’t_ like _her as much as I do now._

If Jack had been there, he would’ve told Brock to stop overanalyzing things. But he wasn’t there, and anyway, Brock couldn’t help it. As he’d told the ducklings on their first day, when going into a new situation it was important to have all the available information. And right now, the information that was missing was his own reaction to threats to his soulmate. Brock looked at himself in his small bathroom mirror. Well, at least he _looked_ completely calm and collected. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

Fitz was on time and wordlessly let Brock into the hangar. It was close to six now, and a number of mechanics still worked busily on a slightly battered Quinjet. They immediately greeted Fitz and included him in their conversation, while they seemed unsure what to think of Brock and proceeded to ignore him. After a few minutes, the familiar alarm sounded and the roof opened. Still outwardly calm, Brock watched as the Bus (which, according to gossip he’d picked up in the mess, had been back in working order for less than two weeks) gently touched down. Then the ramp lowered and his eyes immediately found Jemma in the group of people leaving the plane. She didn’t see him at first, but when she did, her whole face lit up.

“Brock!"

He smiled at her but stayed where he was, acutely aware of the suspicious glances of the other agents. Jemma either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because she made a sharp turn and strode quickly towards him. While Brock still tried to decide how to behave in front of the crowd, Jemma had already thrown her arms around him. Brock took his cue from her and hugged her back, murmuring quietly in her ear: “I’m glad you’re back safe."

“Me too", Jemma whispered. Then she took half a step back to look Brock in the face and said with a crooked smile: “Now you know how I felt when you told me about Egypt."

Brock smiled ruefully. Then someone else appeared at their side.

“Agent Simmons, it’s good to see you back in one piece."

“Director", Brock and Jemma both greeted him.

“Debrief in my office, now, for everyone involved in the mission."

By then, Skye, Hunter and Fitz had also joined the small group. As Coulson left, Jemma gave Fitz a quick hug, too.

“Hey, Jem. Are you okay?"

“Still a bit shaken up. But physically, I’m fine."

“I can’t believe Ward dared to kidnap you!", Skye grumbled as the group started moving.

“I thought my heart would stop when he suddenly appeared in Herrera’s office", Jemma admitted.

Brock frowned. “But do you know why he did it?"

“Because he’s an asshole?", Skye offered, still angry.

Brock didn’t know any details, but he’d always gotten the impression that Skye was hit the hardest by Ward’s betrayal. He also remembered her strong suspicion when he came to her office unannounced. _Better tread carefully._

“The hideout he chose was pretty strange, though, wasn’t it? Very easy for you to find, no protection whatsoever, but a good way to leave the place even when it was surrounded by S.H.I.E.L.D. That sounds like he wanted to be found, don’t you think?"

“Rumlow’s got a point", Hunter piped in. “Ward told Jemma they were the diversion so that his people could get away with the data. Seems like he never planned to actually _keep_ Jemma."

Quietly, Brock suggested: “Maybe he came to the same conclusion as I did on Catalina Island. That Jemma’s one of Coulson’s favourites, and he would stop at nothing to get her back. Kidnapping her is suicide."

Silence. Then once again, Skye’s angry voice: “You thought about _kidnapping_ Jemma?"

Brock was uncomfortably aware of Fitz’s and Jemma’s startled gazes. Only Hunter didn’t seem surprised. While Brock was still searching for the right answer, the Brit said: “’Course he did. Would’ve been stupid not to. I mean, when you’ve worked for a terrorist organization for years and then been on the run for a couple more, handing yourself in to the government isn’t the obvious choice."

“That’s one way to put it", Brock agreed carefully. “It was either that, dying within a few weeks, or trying to kidnap Jemma. And I didn’t _know_ her back then, I had no idea if she would agree to a soulmate appeal or if I would just rot in prison for the rest of my life. Compared to that, a few more years on the run and then maybe a swift death didn’t sound that bad. Except, as I just said, I knew it would be more like a couple of _weeks_ on the run because we’d have the best S.H.I.E.L.D. has to offer on our heels. And then they’d do everything in their power to take me alive to save Jemma, so that prison option was very likely."

Brock saw Jemma swallow hard. He hastened to add: “Of course, then I got to know Jemma better and realized that making a deal with S.H.I.E.L.D. had much more to offer than just to keep me out of prison." Jemma gave him a small smile at that.

Skye frowned. “So what you’re saying is – Ward wanted to make sure our attention was drawn away from his people, but he never intended to actually take Jemma with him?"

At Brock’s nod, she added: “Then why didn’t he simply kill her when he left? He knows how important Jemma’s to all of us, both as a friend and a scientist. Losing her would be a hard blow for S.H.I.E.L.D. and good for Hydra."

Uncomfortable silence. Then Jemma explained quietly: “He called me an old friend. Maybe he – didn’t _want_ to kill me?"

“Did he threaten you? Or tried to get information from you?", Brock asked.

“No. I mean – in a way. He saw my soulmark when he cuffed me to the chair and asked about it. He..." Jemma winced. “I’m sorry, but he knows about you, Brock. He must’ve suspected something before, but... He asked me if my soulmark had anything to do with an image of you, Captain Rogers, Tony Stark and Agent Romanoff standing together peacefully, and everyone knows I’m rubbish at hiding things."

Brock swallowed. “If Ward knows, then we have to assume all of Hydra knows. But don’t blame yourself, Jemma, it was bound to come out sooner or later. The Avengers and I haven’t exactly been secret about it."

Then they arrived at Coulson’s office. Jemma hung back uncertainly. Brock smiled at her. “Hey, it’s okay, I know I’m not allowed to come in. I’ll wait out here."

“Thanks, Brock. Really", Jemma said gratefully. Then she stepped inside the office, and Brock saw that Fitz had saved her a seat next to him. As Jemma sat down, he placed a hand on her arm supportively. Brock repressed the short pang of jealousy. It was _good_ that Jemma had a strong support network. She deserved all the friends in the world. Then the door closed, and Brock couldn’t do anything but wait.

  
* ∼ *

The debrief took almost two hours. Brock wasn’t a sniper, but his STRIKE unit had also often had to wait for a mark to show up, a delivery to arrive, the weather to turn. So he waited. When the door opened, most of the emerging field agents looked chagrined. Jemma and Fitz were subdued, too, but Brock couldn’t detect any guilt in their faces. So most likely they hadn’t been the recipients of the dressing-down of which he’d heard the barest hints through the thick soundproof door.

“Hey. Thanks for waiting. But – what time is it? Don’t you have to get back?", Jemma asked slightly worried.

Brock shrugged and nodded at a clock at the end of the corridor. “It’s 7:56. I can still make it if I run. But I thought, I promised you I’d be here, and hopefully Coulson won’t throw me straight back in the Vault if I’m a few minutes late."

“Well, it might be better not to provoke him today. He’s... not in a very good mood", Jemma said with a backwards glance. “Brock, would it be okay if– Could Fitz maybe accompany us to your room?"

Brock quickly hid his surprise. If Jemma needed friendly faces after the day’s ordeal, he wouldn’t make her choose between her soulmate and her best friend. “Sure. I promise I won’t bite."

As soon as Brock’s door closed behind the trio, Fitz enveloped Jemma in a much tighter hug than he’d allowed himself in public. “Shit, Jemma, I was scared out of my mind when Ward called Coulson to say he’d kidnapped you, and Coulson asked me if I hadn’t been in contact with you the whole time, and suddenly that _woman_ turned the glasses around to show me her face. I though I’d faint, I swear. I mean, _Ward_."

“Yes, I know. When I saw him – it just all came back. That med pod..."

The two friends looked at each other, caught in terrible memories. Suddenly, Fitz flinched as if he’d been hit and swore: “Holy shit!"

“What?", Jemma asked with alarm in her voice.

“I just realized something", Fitz said, horrified. “Coulson’s plan was to send _me_ to SkyHeroes. If I hadn’t been sick, it would’ve been me who got kidnapped. Bugger. Does it make me a horrible person if I’m kind of glad I wasn’t there?"

“No. Just makes you human", Brock rumbled quietly. “Although I would’ve preferred if he got neither of you."

Jemma nodded emphatically.

“Why don’t you two sit down", Brock suggested gently when it didn’t look like the two would break out of their stupor on their own.

Jemma sat down heavily on Brock’s bed. Fitz was obviously not comfortable touching an essentially stranger’s bed, so he grabbed a chair and pulled it over to sit close to his friend, their knees almost touching. After the day’s events, Brock couldn’t help sitting down next to Jemma and putting an arm around her shoulders. He was only human, okay, and even a hardened fighter such as him sometimes needed physical reassurances that someone he cared about was _safe, right here, you can relax now, danger’s over_.

Since the two seemed unsure what to say, Brock finally decided to nudge them a little. “Look. I know that Ward’s betrayal was a turning point for you both. Your whole team, really. Sometimes it helps to just – talk about it." With a rueful smile, he added: “And it would help _me_ understand you all a lot better if I knew what exactly happened with him. So if you want...?"

Fitz and Jemma looked at each other and shuddered. But then Fitz’s face firmed, and he started: “We knew he’d betrayed us when we came back to the base and he and Skye were gone, and then we found a message Skye had hidden that simply said, ‘Ward is Hydra’. And _then_ we found the body of Agent Koenig, who could’ve only been killed by Ward."

Brock blinked at that jumbled information. “And when exactly was that?"

“After the Hydra uprising", Jemma explained shakily. “You know that the Fridge fell, right? We found out later that Ward helped Garrett take the Fridge and free all the inmates. But then they needed Skye to decode a hard drive with my research on it, so he pretended to still be on our side and came back. He was badly injured, said he’d made it out of the Fridge after a fight, and so he and Skye stayed back when the rest of us went to deal with one of the escaped prisoners. Except when we came back, they were gone."

Brock sorted through that quickly. “Back on Catalina Island, you told me that Ward had been sent to spy on you. For Garrett?"

“Yes. We found out much later that Garrett had been wounded on a mission in 1990, and was told by the S.H.I.E.L.D. medics that there was nothing they could do for him. They gave him a few years at most. So he decided to find a cure himself, using whatever means necessary, and joined Hydra. They got him cybernetic implants, and although he kept working on perfecting the technology, they must not have been enough. When he found out about Coulson being revived, he probably thought the method could save him, too. But Fury was super secretive about it, so Garrett sent Ward to get the intel from Coulson directly. Only, they didn’t expect that _Coulson_ had no idea either, so Ward stayed with our team while we tried to find out what happened to Coulson."

“And you found out in the end?"

Jemma and Fitz looked at each other. Hesitatingly, Jemma answered: “Yes, we did. But we can’t tell you about it, it’s still classified as Level 9."

Brock’s eyebrows hit his hairline. That wasn’t a classification you heard often. “Okay, then I won’t ask. But you put the info on a hard drive which Hydra acquired, and they needed Skye to decrypt it?"

The two friends nodded.

“I see. So while Ward was on your team, he pretended to be your friend?"

“Not initially", Jemma answered pensively. “In the beginning, he kept saying that he worked better alone and didn’t want to be part of a team."

“Which only served to trigger Coulson’s caretaking instincts and made him insist even more on Ward becoming a part of our team", Fitz piped in.

“At first, Ward acted quite aloof – Skye nicknamed him Robot. But over time, he seemed to thaw a little. Made jokes, played card games with us when we had downtime. We thought we were getting through to him. He–" Unconsciously, Jemma lowered her voice, as if she didn’t want to betray her friend’s secret. “He slept with May."

Brock blinked in surprise. He wouldn’t have thought May would initiate that kind of contact with a coworker.

Noting his reaction, Jemma nodded. “We were surprised, too. She told us later that it started after the incident with the Berserker staff, when they were both reeling from having to relive their most painful memories."

“Bahrain?", Brock guessed. At his clearance level, you tended to find out about clusterfucks such as that – and it had caused quite a stir when the high-ranking specialist had transferred to Administration in 2008.

Jemma nodded. “Apparently, for Ward it was reliving how his older brother forced him to torture his younger brother. At least that’s what he told Skye."

“And he and May were involved right up until the Hydra uprising?"

“No. There was an incident with an Asgardian sorceress who found out that Ward was in love with Skye, and told May about it, so that’s when May stopped seeing him."

Brock shook his head in disbelief. “I’d heard that Coulson’s team was involved in the weird shit. I’d no idea it was _this_ weird."

“You don’t say", Fitz murmured despondently.

Jemma winced in sympathy. Then she continued their story: “Skye was hit by his betrayal the hardest. Coulson had made Ward her S.O., so they spent a lot of time together. And although she’d never publicly admit it now, she told me back then that she was falling in love with him. And then she found out he’d been playing us the whole time, and that he’d only used her to get information. She was... in a bad place for a while."

“I can imagine", Brock commiserated silently. “And you two?"

They were silent for a moment, Jemma unconsciously seeking support by leaning into his hug. It was Fitz who spoke, though. “He told me once that I was like a younger brother to him. Called me ‘our little monkey’. I thought–" He had to stop and take a deep breath. “There was this mission, you see. Agent Hand sent Ward and I to South Ossetia. There was a separatist group that had built a weapon which could use sonic vibrations to trigger other weapons from great distances. They wanted me to disable it, and Ward to get me there, within 24 hours, before the separatists could use it to declare independence. It was my first _real_ field mission, the first time I had direct contact with hostiles and was actually in danger. I managed to get us out of a sticky situation, and I think Ward was impressed despite himself, had to admit I wasn’t just a clueless scientist. But then it turned out that Hand had lied to us. She’d told us there would be an extraction team waiting, but there wasn’t anybody but us. We decided to finish the mission anyway, even though it would probably blow our cover and get us killed. That was nerve-wracking, to say the least. But somehow I thought... maybe Ward would get us out. That’s how much I trusted him back then."

Jemma placed a supportive hand on Fitz’s knee. The engineer grimaced. “I managed to disable the device, the separatists discovered us and there was a big fight. I got shot in the shoulder and passed out, and when I woke up I was back on the Bus. Jemma and Skye had defied orders and hacked into the mission data, seen there was no extraction and persuaded May and Coulson to come and get us themselves. Ward somehow kept me alive long enough for them to arrive and save us."

“After that, Fitz and Ward were a lot closer", Jemma picked up the story when it appeared Fitz wasn’t able to continue. “That brother comparison wasn’t actually that far fetched. So when we found out Ward had betrayed us, Fitz thought he might still be saved. Thought that maybe Garrett was controlling him like he was controlling so many others, with an exploding eye implant or some other pressure point. But then S.H.I.E.L.D. was gone and Garrett and Cybertek were going to wreak havoc, and who was going to stop them if not us? So we all tried to find them, and one idea was to locate the Bus, which Ward had stolen when he kidnapped Skye. Coulson asked Fitz and me to do that, because he and the others were going to a base where we thought they might be holed up. And I guess it would have been fine, only Fitz and I saw they were leaving, and the others never would have arrived on time, so we – kind of couldn’t bring ourselves to leave as Coulson had ordered us to. And while we were still discussing what to do, Ward found us. He brought us to Garrett, and Fitz managed to fry his cybernetic implants with an EMP." Jemma grinned proudly. “If they hadn’t had the miracle drug that saved Coulson, I’m sure Garrett would have died."

“Well done, Fitz", Brock said approvingly.

The engineer’s face was pained. “Yeah, well, in the end it didn’t really help. Garrett apparently took offence because he ordered Ward to kill us. We’d locked ourselves in the med pod and tried to talk him down. I _really_ thought we’d get through to him. I thought he cared about us. And do you know what he said? ‘You’re right. I do. It’s a weakness.’ And then he ejected the med pod and left us to drown."

Brock grimaced. “Jemma already told me about that part."

“Did she also tell you how we got out?"

Brock shook his head no.

“At first we thought we were locked in the pod, but then we realized how we could ignite the seal of the window, let the outside pressure blow the window in. But we were ninety feet below the surface, and we only had enough oxygen for one of us. Jemma’s always been the better swimmer, so I thought–"

Brock could feel Jemma trembling in his hug. Fitz was looking at the floor. He took a deep breath, then continued: “It was still a huge gamble, and we were damn lucky to survive. I mean, we were in the middle of the ocean with no floatation. But while we were waiting to suffocate I’d rigged the EKG to send out a weak distress signal, only it was on a S.H.I.E.L.D. frequency so I didn’t expect anyone to be listening. But some people were searching for Coulson, so they picked it up and came to investigate. Which was good for us, because they got us both into decompression chambers immediately. But I was... in pretty bad shape. It took me two weeks to wake up, and much longer to talk again. So for the rest of the story, I can only offer second-hand information. Before we’d locked ourselves in the med pod, we’d managed to place a tracker on the plane. Coulson and the others used that to locate Garrett. He’d gone to a Cybertek facility from where they were controlling their army of enhanced soldiers. Apparently, the plan had been to sell the technology to the military, but somehow Garrett must have reacted badly to the drug. Coulson told us later that he’d gone completely crazy, raving about evoluation and seeing the whole universe and stuff. So in the end, our team managed to free the people that had been held prisoner to force the enhanced soldiers to obey Hydra, and without that threat one of them, a friend of ours, killed Garrett. Ward wasn’t there for that confrontation, he’d been sent to keep Skye away from the prisoners. But he and Garrett hadn’t taken into account that May would be there, and how absolutely _pissed off_ she was."

Jemma suddenly started grinning darkly. “I was already out of the decompression chamber when all of them came back here, so I saw Ward. He looked horrible. May told us later that they were pretty evenly matched in the beginning of their fight, but then she managed to nail his foot to the floor with a nail gun and fractured his larynx with a punch to the throat. And from the bruises I could see, I think she made very sure he would stay unconscious until backup arrived."

Brock swallowed hard. If it had been the Avengers instead of Coulson’s team who’d captured him, if _Romanoff_ had been the one to get to him first – he would've probably looked the same. If he had survived the encounter at all. Slightly uncomfortably, he asked: “So then May and Coulson interrogated him?"

“May did", Jemma confirmed. “For a week. Coulson was too busy trying to find out which parts of S.H.I.E.L.D. were still salvageable, and who was still loyal. Those first few days, it was just us here at this base: Coulson, May, Skye, Triplet, Agent Koenig – who’d been in charge of this base for years, apparently, while it was standing here completely empty – and I. And Fitz and the small medical team that had been sent to care for him. So during the day everyone was just going crazy trying to find out what was happening out there, but in the evenings we used to all meet in Fitz’s room. The first night, Coulson told us that Fury had..." She hesitated for a split second. “That he’d left him a message asking him to rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D., and to do it _right_. The next night, Skye told us her idea. We all thought it was crazy at first, but then..."

Jemma hesitated again. “I never told you how Skye came to our team, did I?"

“No. Back then, I heard some rumours that Coulson had taken on a former hacker, but that’s all I know about her background."

Jemma nodded. “Skye is an orphan. The only clue about her family that she was able to find was one document, and that had been redacted by S.H.I.E.L.D. When we met her, Skye was a member of the Rising Tide. Even though she told us later that the real reason she’d hacked into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s databases was to find out more about herself, she thought that some of the Rising Tide’s ideas were right. For example, that super-powered people and secret organizations shouldn’t go off killing people, even dangerous ones, without any oversight by the public. She argued that this secrecy and the lack of proper control – because come on, the World Security Council wasn’t all that reasonable either – were one of the main reasons that Hydra had been able to grow inside of S.H.I.E.L.D. And much as it hurt to admit, Skye was right. So we all agreed that S.H.I.E.L.D. had to go public and agree to some kind of oversight. But even though our main bases have always been in the US, we didn’t want to be an American agency. S.H.I.E.L.D. fights threats worldwide, so it made sense to get an international mandate. Which was why Coulson decided to speak in front of the UN. And once we’d decided _that_, there was so much to prepare that nobody spared Ward another thought for the next three weeks, until Coulson’s speech was done and it was clear that King T’Chaka would lead the commission tasked with vetting all S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel. That’s when some American politicians decided to profit from the whole mess, and Ward’s brother, the Senator, asked S.H.I.E.L.D. to hand Ward over to the FBI for questioning. Even though the UN had decreed that S.H.I.E.L.D. was to get back all its seized assets, we really needed some goodwill to smoothen the process. So Coulson agreed, trusting the FBI to get answers out of Ward. Only Ward managed to escape in transit and re-joined Hydra. He’s been a pain in our butt since then, and if you _really_ want to make S.H.I.E.L.D. happy, catching him would be a good way to do it."

“I see", Brock said thoughtfully. “Don’t get this wrong, but if you’re all so eager to catch him – why isn’t he down in the Vault right now? You’re a whole agency, he’s just one man."

“One man backed by a terrorist organization that doesn’t have any scruples", Fitz grumbled.

Jemma added a slightly more detailed explanation. “I know you were indisposed the first few months, but you must have read the news afterwards. So you know that S.H.I.E.L.D. lost about a third of its personnel because it was Hydra, and another third that was either hurt or killed during the uprising or decided to quit because of the whole mess. We’ve been recruiting new agents since then, but S.H.I.E.L.D. still had to prioritize. At first, we were pretty busy getting back the bases that Hydra had taken over, like the Hub and the Academy. Luckily, because Hydra had officially been declared a terrorist organization and S.H.I.E.L.D. had been reinstated, the military, FBI and police forces helped us with that. At the same time, some of us were tasked with finding and arresting the escaped detainees from the Fridge. You’ve been S.H.I.E.L.D. for much longer than us, you know what kind of dangerous people were in there. We still haven’t finished completely, for example, a scientist who worked with Garrett was only arrested a month ago, but at least the especially dangerous ones are in police custody or in the Avengers’ prison now. When they found out Hydra had Loki’s scepter, the Avengers were very keen to find it, so we left it to them to search for Hydra bases. I think Barton and Romanoff took Hydra’s betrayal personally, they have cleared out a _lot_ of bases. So about half a year ago, we started making a list of known Hydra operatives that we wanted to find. You were pretty high up that list, _and_ Skye found out how to contact you via that site on the dark net, so we decided to try and catch you. Ward, on the other hand–" Jemma sighed. “We’ve come across him eleven times now, but we haven’t been able to catch him."

“You’ve kept count?", Fitz asked surprisedly.

“Well, it pisses me of – pardon my language. It’s almost as if we’re cursed. S.H.I.E.L.D. has caught quite a few of Ward’s people, destroyed three bases that he worked from _and_ confiscated quite a lot of tech that they were working on, but he always manages to escape."

“That does sound suspicious", Brock said thoughtfully. “I don’t want to scare you, but are you sure there’s no mole in your team that warns him before raids?"

“If there was, wouldn’t Ward try to save some of his projects and people by cleaning out before we come?", Fitz asked.

“Unless he wants to prevent you from suspecting he’s been warned."

Jemma and Fitz shared an uneasy glance. “I hope you’re wrong", Jemma finally said. “We’ve all put a lot of faith in King T’Chaka’s work, if it turns out he missed someone – the trust in our colleagues that we’ve tentatively won back would be gone."

“Then I hope it’s just coincidence. Or maybe that Ward is expecting S.H.I.E.L.D. to come after him, and has planned all his bases and operations with an escape route for himself in mind."

“Sounds selfish enough to be like him", Fitz grumbled.

“You don’t have to answer this if Coulson doesn’t want me to know about it, but are you actively searching for Ward now?"

“Well, Fitz and I aren’t. We’re not permanently assigned to field teams anymore, we mostly provide scientific support. But there is a team, yes. It’s the same team that previously hunted you, actually", Jemma explained with a small grin.

“May and Skye?", Brock guessed.

Fitz started whistling and twiddling his thumbs, while Jemma only smiled. That pretty much confirmed it. Then Jemma sobered. “If you can think of anything that might help them, a piece of intel that you didn’t give to Agent Morse..."

“I told her everything that I thought was relevant", Brock started pensively. “But of course I didn’t know what exactly you already knew and what you’re all working on right now. So maybe..." The other two waited patiently. Slowly, voicing his thoughts out loud, Brock explained: “You know Hydra has several heads. Hydra compartmentalizes even more than S.H.I.E.L.D., so most Hydra agents never find out which head they are working for. Because I was a high-level agent, I knew that I was working for Pierce, and I knew that Garrett and von Strucker were two other heads that were hidden inside S.H.I.E.L.D. But even though they were all called heads and didn’t answer to anyone else, they weren’t equally powerful. Pierce was commanding all Hydra members within STRIKE, and also all Hydra staff stationed at the Triskelion. He was the mastermind behind Project Insight, he was involved with the World Security Council – very powerful. Von Strucker was a scientist, and as far as I know, he had many bases and secret vaults hidden around the world, so he was powerful and dangerous, too, until the Avengers caught him. But Garrett was different. He had a lot of resources and Ward as his right hand man, but besides him, Garrett didn’t command many other Hydra agents. He preferred to let external contractors work for him."

“Cybertek", Fitz said darkly.

Brock nodded. “Because of this structure, it’s hard to say if Ward was a high- or low-ranking Hydra agent. There was only one person above him, so from that perspective he had the same rank as me, but the number of people he commanded was zero most of the time."

“Except at the end. When he caught us, there were quite a few other agents working with him and Garrett."

Brock squeezed Jemma’s hand supportively. “What I’m trying to say is: Garrett might have shared a lot of his knowledge with Ward, and maybe he’s using that now to make up for his lack of leadership experience. But the interesting question is if he’s convinced the other heads somehow to accept him as Garrett’s successor and give him resources, or if he’s working for another head now. If you find out he’s joined the division of someone else, learning more about them might help you find Ward."

“That sounds quite smart."

“No need to sound so surprised, Fitz", Brock joked wrily. “Fury didn’t only promote me because of my stunningly good looks."

“Oh yeah? Well, you could use a trip to the hairdresser now", Fitz shot back instinctively.

“Pot. Kettle", Jemma murmured under her breath.

During the ensuing discussion about personal hygiene inside a secret base, Brock allowed himself a small smile. His plan to end the discussion on a lighter note had worked. He didn’t want to be responsible for any nightmares triggered by having to recount some of Fitz’s and Jemma’s most painful memories. But privately, he was very worried about what they’d told him. He didn’t know what Ward was up to but it sounded as if he might cross Jemma’s or her friends’ paths again. And he had _almost killed Jemma_. If not for Fitz’s sacrifice, her wonderful, brilliant brain could have been irreparably damaged. Brock silently swore to himself that if S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t catch Ward soon, he would sick the Avengers on him at the first occasion – and make sure he suffered before his death.

The engineer excused himself soon after, while Jemma stayed behind. “Brock, can I sleep here tonight? Just sleep. I don’t want to be alone", she confessed quietly.

“Of course, Jemma. Anytime."

Brock was a very light sleeper. When Jemma woke with a slight gasp in the middle of the night, he was immediately awake, too. He could guess what she’d been dreaming about, so he didn’t want to startle her. Quietly, he asked: “Jemma? Everything alright?"

“Yes." She sighed shakily. “No. I don’t know. I dreamed of the med pod again. That hasn’t happened in a while. Today’s events must have triggered something in my subconscious. I’m sorry that I woke you, if you want I can go back to my... Mmpf."

Very carefully, Brock had reached over and gathered her in a hug, and now he was kissing her gently. “It’s okay, Jemma. It’s perfectly normal for something big like that to come back up."

Jemma rested her head against Brock’s chest. “I know. It’s just – the strange thing was, I really thought he was our friend."

“He’s a superb actor. He managed to fool people who are much better trained to spot lies than you are", Brock tried to soothe her.

“But that’s just it", Jemma said frustratedly. “It wasn’t just the way he interacted with us. It was also the things he did. Like when he jumped out of the Bus to save my life."

“When he did what?"

Jemma blushed suddenly. “Oh. We forgot to tell you about that earlier, didn’t we?"

“Tell me what?", Brock asked with an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

“There had been a suspicious death in Pennsylvania, a man whose body was just– floating in the air. When I examined him, I got hit by an electrical discharge. We found out later that he’d been a firefighter who helped in New York after the Chitauri invasion and took an alien helmet home with him. Unfortunately, there was some kind of virus on the helmet, which killed him."

“And jumped to you?"

“Yes. But we noticed that very late. You see, objects would start floating around an infected person, shortly before they got more and more charged, and then died with a huge electrical pulse."

“Let me guess. You only noticed when something started flying next to you?"

Jemma nodded with a pained face. “By then, the Bus was already over the ocean, because we wanted to bring the helmet to the Sandbox. I knew that I only had a few hours left, and if I couldn’t find an antidote, the EMP would take the Bus down with me."

Brock hugged her tighter. “That must’ve been terrible."

“It was. Fitz and I worked on it, and we thought that the only cure would have to come from the helmet itself, because obviously the Chitauri had carried the virus but still been able to fight a battle. But when I tested the formula on a mouse, there was a discharge and the mouse started floating. So I thought it didn’t work, you see? And I knew that Coulson would never throw me off the plane, even if it meant that they’d all crash with me, so– I asked for a few moments alone with Fitz. And then I knocked him over the head with a fire extinguisher and jumped out of the cargo bay."

“That was very brave of you", Brock murmured in her hair. “I didn’t know that you’re able to handle a parachute."

“I’m not. Well, I am now, but I wasn’t back then. I jumped without one."

“You what?", Brock’s voice broke on the last word, and he pushed at her shoulders to be able to see her face. “Say that again."

“Well, I was sure that I was _dying_, so it didn’t make much of a difference, did it? Only, Fitz woke up just before I jumped, and he saw that the mouse was alive and had returned to the bottom of its cage. So he grabbed the antidote and wanted to follow me, but _he_ didn’t have any idea how to use a parachute, either. And then Ward was there, and grabbed both the antidote and the chute, and followed me. I don’t know how he managed to catch up to me, but he administered the antidote and opened the chute, and _boom_, there was the EMP that had also happened to the mouse, only we were far enough away from the plane that it was harmless, and– Yeah. That’s how he saved my life."

Brock hugged her tight again. The thought that he had almost lost Jemma, before he even knew that she existed... _Okay. For that, I’ll grant Ward a quick death instead of the slow, torturous one I had planned._


	11. Programma Robot

The next morning, Jemma went to Skye’s office and told her about Brock’s suggestion to find out if Ward was working for one of the remaining Hydra heads or leading his own faction. Her friend, who was still doing follow-up work for the Herrera case and trying to find out where Ward might have brought the engineer, thanked her for the tip.

The rest of the week, Jemma did further tests on the blood work of people exposed to her sedative, while Brock was busy preparing the ducklings for their first training mission. Neither of them heard anything about Ward. Then, on Monday morning, the Avengers came to pick Brock up for his next mission. It seemed they meant business: On Monday and Tuesday, they raided two of the formerly unknown bases from Brock’s confession list. On Wednesday, Fitz visited Brock in his room and handed him a tiny camera. Apparently, Coulson hadn’t been too happy with the lack of audio on the Avengers’ device and decided to bug Brock himself. He was required to turn the thing on while still in the base’s hangar, and only allowed to turn it off once he was back. Great. How he loved being monitored. Then, on Thursday, the Avengers had a target that Brock had never heard about before. Rogers seemed reluctant to share any intel with Brock, but at least he was aware that a successful mission relied heavily on everyone being on the same page.

“Stark and your soulmate’s friend Agent Skye wrote a computer program that evaluates the e-mail traffic, chat protocols and money transactions of known Hydra operatives. Especially the ones we’ve already caught and whose hardware we’ve confiscated. John Garrett exchanged quite a lot of e-mails with someone in Burgas, the largest port on the Bulgarian Black Sea Coast. The program couldn’t reconstruct the contents of the messages, but the subjects seemed to suggest the recipient was a scientist. There was also a money trail from Garrett via several shell companies to Burgas. Not enough to really fund a whole base, but maybe enough to pay for some contract work. As Stark put it, Hydra was so nice to use a static IP, so he managed to find the location of the computer."

Rogers expertly swished over the holo-display and three-dimensional blueprints appeared. The Captain explained what they’d learned about the likely number of agents stationed in the base, possible weaknesses of the building’s architecture, in short: typical mission info. When he was done and asked Brock if he had any questions, Brock hesitated. But he was curious.

“You said Stark obtained most of the intel, but he’s not here now. Is he only a part-time Avenger?"

Rogers frowned disapprovingly. He _really_ did not like to tell Brock things. In the end he deigned to say: “Stark may have made Miss Potts CEO of Stark Industries, but he’s still very involved in the company. He comes with us when he has time, or when his particular skills are needed. Which should not be the case today."

In the beginning of the raid, Brock tended to agree with Rogers’ assessment. It was four in the morning local time, so hopefully the Hydra agents wouldn’t be at the top of their game. Barton used tranq arrows to knock out the guards stationed outside the building, then Rogers smashed the door with his shield. Inside, there was a small lobby with four more guards, which Romanoff disabled with a stun grenade. Brock was quite busy cleaning up after the three: He dragged the two unconscious men inside so as not to alarm any passersby, then used Stark’s fancy handcuffs to tie up all six Hydra agents. Although the things almost looked like zip ties, unless someone had brought a bolt cutter they wouldn’t be able to get out of them any time soon. While Brock was working, he heard crashes and shouts from inside the building, accompanied by the shrill ringing of an alarm. On the Quinjet, Rogers had pointed out where they thought the labs were positioned, and where armed personnel was likely stationed. The plan was to take out the guards first and clean out the labs later. So Brock now knew in which direction to go, tying up unconscious (or sometimes still weakly groaning) uniformed men and women along the way. Unfortunately, as it turned out Hydra had done some modifications to the building that hadn’t been included in the floor plans.

A quiet hissing sound was Brock’s only warning, then a part of the wall that he’d just passed disappeared and a group of six soldiers poured out. Brock reacted on instinct. He knocked away the leading man’s weapon and smashed his elbow into the guy’s face. Then he grabbed the groaning man and pulled him in front of himself as his colleagues started shooting. It didn’t look like they were using ICERs. Brock managed to sow momentary confusion by pushing his meat shield into the group and then, instead of trying to run as the agents might have expected, going on the offensive. After all, he’d spent five weeks training for exactly this kind of situation. Okay, without firearms, but come on, don’t be pedantic. Hit, kick, duck, push. In these close quarters, guns weren’t ideal weapons, anyway. Brock knocked two of the guards out before he managed to wrest a gun from one of the remaining agents. They didn’t stand a chance after that.

If this had been a STRIKE mission three years ago, Brock would’ve used three clean head shots and been done with it. But the new S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook insisted on taking prisoners alive whenever possible. Apparently, even terrorists deserved a proper trial nowadays. (Not that Brock was complaining. After all, hiding May and a sniper rifle close to the Asian Civilisations Museum in Singapore would have been much easier for S.H.I.E.L.D. than planting that poison and chasing after him for three days.) So Brock opted for nonlethal shots to arms and legs, then quickly disarmed the downed fighters and distributed more handcuffs. They would need medical attention soon if S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted them to stay alive. No time for that now, though, the first priority was to secure the base.

“They have secret passages in here", Brock quickly reported over his comms. “Encountered six guards, all of them neutralized. One’s dead from friendly fire, the other five injured but alive."

“Stick to the plan", Rogers’ voice came back. “You’ll find some more unconscious agents along the way."

Making good use of his (apart from a _large_ supply of handcuffs) almost empty tac vest, Brock pocketed several of the guard’s weapons, keeping one ready in his hand. Who knew how many more surprises were hidden in here. Leading with the gun, Brock crept along the hallway. Around the corner, another two agents were lying in wait. Hadn’t the Avengers just cleared this corridor? Where had the guards come from? More secret passages? Didn’t matter, Brock ducked their shots and returned fire. When he risked another glance around the corner, the two had disappeared.

“What the fuck?", Brock murmured disbelievingly. Definitely more secret passages. He stayed low as he sprinted along the corridor, and was able to react quickly when a piece of the wall disappeared. Two shots, two thumps, the two guards were down. More handcuffs. All the while, Brock listened to the others’ chatter over the comms. They had separated in order to sweep the facility faster, and were also meeting more resistance than expected. Nothing they couldn’t handle, though.

Brock came to a set of stairs with several unconscious people draped over it. That looked like Romanoff’s work. As Brock secured them, he heard the sounds of heavy boots from above. Shit, more armed guards on the balcony. And he was surrounded by open space, without any convenient cover. So Brock drew two of the stolen guns, aimed and shot. One, two, three – there were too many, he wouldn’t be able to eliminate them all before one of them got their weapon up – thuds and screams as arrows pierced some of them. _Clank, boing, smash_ – that was Rogers’ shield. High-pitched yells, followed by gurgling noises as Romanoff disabled the last ones. Talk about rescue at the last moment. Brock stood there, breathing heavily, half expecting one of them to get back up and attack him again. Ever so slowly, he started to relax. Then he realized that Barton, Romanoff and Rogers were still alert, still ready to spring into action, and they were looking _in his direction_. Ice rushed through his veins, and Brock tried to see who was creeping up behind him by staring at the Captain’s reflecting shield. There was nobody there. Then why...?

_Oh fuck._

They weren’t looking at someone behind Brock, they were looking at him. Because he was still holding the guns. _Screw you all_, Brock thought angrily. Ever since he’d been in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s custody, Brock hadn’t done a single thing to make anyone question his loyalty. Just because he used every available advantage in a fight–

_No sense to address that topic now while they’re all still in fight mode. Damage control, Rumlow._ Slowly, Brock ejected the magazines from the two guns, letting them clatter to the ground. In a slightly exaggerated move, he threw the two weapons to the side, followed by the other guns he had stored in his tac vest. Then he lifted his empty hands.

“Relax, guys. I’m not gonna flip sides just because I’ve touched a weapon for the first time in three months."

Rogers looked at him disapprovingly, but at least nobody tried to deny that that’s what they had been thinking.

“I think that should’ve been the last of the guards", Barton offered finally. “I’ve locked some scientists in a lab, but there might be more in their secret hidey-holes."

Rogers nodded. “I’ll notify S.H.I.E.L.D. that they can come pick up the prisoners now. Clint, you and I restrain the rest and perform first aid where it’s necessary. Natasha, take Rumlow and round up the scientists, and try to get them to tell you how we can open those secret passages."

The labs were exactly where they’d expected them to be. Disconcertingly, there were some cells directly next to the labs. Luckily, they were empty and didn’t look as if they’d been used recently. Barton had assured Brock and Romanoff that there hadn’t been anything resembling weapons inside the room where he’d locked the scientists, so hopefully they hadn’t used the time to build a bomb or something equally unpleasant. The archer had short-circuited the electronic lock on the door, a problem that Romanoff solved by shooting off the whole lock. Inside, one man was busy shredding documents, another stood at the sink pouring contents of various vials down the drain, while two women worked hectically on two computers, probably deleting data. _Barton should have found a way to cut the power_, Brock thought as he followed Romanoff inside. The S.H.I.E.L.D. techs would probably be able to recover the data from the computers, but piecing back the scraps of paper would take forever.

“Hands up, and stay where you are", Romanoff ordered.

The scientists looked tense as they obeyed her. Brock wordlessly took a bundle of handcuffs from his vest and started tying up the first woman. She stood very still, but suddenly there was a strange light in her eyes. Addressing Romanoff, she asked: “Ty Chernaya Vdova?"

Brock’s Russian was rudimentary at best, but he knew ‘Chernaya Vdova’ meant ‘Black Widow’.

Romanoff lifted elegant eyebrows. “Da. Pochemu, vy fanat?" _Yes. Why, are you a fan?_

Now all the scientists exchanged excited glances. Romanoff noticed and gripped her weapon tighter, and Brock hurried to cuff the second woman. He’d never come across a mark that was relieved to realize they were facing the famous Widow. This was definitely suspicious. Suddenly, there was movement behind him. The man who had been pouring chemicals down the drain had grabbed one of the vials and flung it in their direction. Brock instinctively dove to the side, and so did Romanoff. He didn’t think he’d been hit, but the stuff seemed to be evaporating fast. What was it, a poison? Brock preemptively held his breath and hastened to scramble away from the sputters on the ground. The experience of breathing in and then suffering from Jemma's poison was still fresh enough to motivate him to move _fast_. Brock had just gotten back up and started to move towards the man to prevent him from throwing anything else, when something hit his ear. He moved with the blow, but it still hurt, and he felt his comms unit be knocked out of his ear. Brock whirled around.

_What the fuck?_

The person who had attacked him was Romanoff.

“Shit. Rumlow’s turned, I repeat, Rumlow’s turned. He’s just attacked me, and he has a gun", the redhead rapidly spoke into her own comms.

“What? No!" But of course nobody would be able to hear Brock’s reply. Nobody but Romanoff, who smirked and went on the offensive. Brock was able to block her first few hits and kicks, then he had to vault over one of the lab benches as Romanoff got out a knife. He was only peripherally aware of the scientists, who quickly pocketed some flash drives and vials of clear liquid before disappearing out the door. Brock knew he didn’t stand a chance against the Black Widow, _especially_ if he didn’t want to harm her (Coulson would never forgive him) while she didn’t seem to have any qualms about killing him. So he did the only thing he could think of: He threw a heavy piece of lab equipment at her to force her to dive to the side, then ran out the door as if the hounds of hell were after him.

Brock didn’t make it very far before rounding a corner and running into what felt like a solid brick wall. It was the Captain’s shield. The impact drove the air out of Brock’s lungs, and before he could draw another breath to say anything, Rogers had pushed him up against the wall. His forearm pressed against Brock’s throat, immovable as a steel beam.

“Cap", Brock gasped, instinctively clawing at the arm. “She lied. I didn’t..."

Rogers’ face was a storm cloud, his eyes sparked with cold fury. “Once a traitor, always a traitor, hm?"

Brock could hear running footsteps. Whatever had gotten into Romanoff, Brock doubted she would just stand back and watch once she saw that he was incapacitated. He very vividly remembered her knife, which had already drawn a line of fiery pain along his arm.

“I surrender, okay? Just don’t let her kill me."

His voice was barely more than a whisper. He couldn’t _breathe_, damnit. The steps were almost at the corner. Rogers still didn’t seem convinced. If Romanoff killed him...

“Soulmate", Brock gasped with his last breath.

A black-and-red flash rounded the corner. Gleaming metal arched towards Brock’s chest. _Dong!_ At the last second, Rogers had brought up his shield.

“Nat, wait. Locking him up is a much better punishment than killing him."

“He could still be armed. Steve, he might have gotten explosives from the Hydra agents he was supposedly tying up, quick, get away from him before he can detonate them!"

Brock tried to shake his head no. She wanted Cap to step away so she could reach him again. But Rogers’ hold on Brock had tightened, he couldn’t speak, felt the world go grey at the edges.

“I don’t see anything. Nat, come on, remember his soulmate. She’s one of Coulson’s, we can’t just kill her with him..."

Grey turned to black, and the Captain’s voice faded.

  
* ∼ *

It was eight in the morning and Jemma had just turned on her computer when suddenly, a small image of Skye appeared in the corner of her screen. Her friend looked worried.

“Hey, Jemma. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. The Avengers are waiting in the hallway to speak with Coulson. Apparently, Rumlow attacked Agent Romanoff."

One, two, three heartbeats of shocked silence. Jemma must have misheard. “What?"

“They put him in Vault D. Look, Coulson is still in another meeting, so they haven’t started the debrief yet. You’ll probably be the only one on his side, so maybe you should come quickly?"

“Yes, yes, of course. But – that must’ve been a misunderstanding. Do you know what happened?"

“No. But if it’s just his word against hers – you know who everyone will believe."

Jemma’s heart was hammering. This was exactly the situation that everyone had warned her about. But she refused to believe that Brock had really played them, there _must_ be another explanation.

“The camera!", Fitz suddenly exclaimed from behind Jemma.

“What camera?"

“Yesterday, Coulson told me to give Rumlow a body cam. If he’s worn it..."

“... we can see what really happened! Fitz, you’re brilliant. Come on, let’s go to the Vault."

Neither of them liked the ultra-modern cell. Fitz and Jemma had never come down here while Ward was there, but they’d seen enough of the interrogation videos to forever link the Vault to their former team mate. Nevertheless, Fitz knew all about the room’s technology, including the code that got them through the door at the top of the stairs. When they entered, they heard frantic gasping sounds.

“What...? Brock!"

Jemma raced down the stairs. Her soulmate lay on the floor, a hand at his throat, and fought for air. His lips had already started turning blue.

“Fitz, let me in, we have to help him!"

Her friend had already grabbed the tablet that controlled the invisible barrier. Then he frowned and quickly swiped over the screen. Immediately, Brock drew a deep breath. Jemma and Fitz watched him anxiously. A few more breaths, and Brock let go of his throat, rolling onto his back tiredly and groaning: “Fuck, that was too close."

“What happened?", Jemma asked.

“The oxygen content of the air on his side of the room was almost zero", Fitz explained darkly. “And not because of a technical defect. Someone set the slider to the lowest possible setting."

“Are you saying someone tried to kill him?", Jemma asked aghast.

Fitz nodded. “They could’ve done it from the upstairs control room."

“But who would do that?"

“Romanoff", Brock answered with conviction. “I don’t know what got into her, but she tried to kill me at the Hydra base, and if Cap hadn’t sat next to me on the flight, she probably would have tried again."

“Brock, what happened? They said you attacked her?"

Her soulmate shook his head. “I didn’t. But no one’s gonna believe me, are they?"

“They might. If you used that camera I gave you", Fitz grinned.

Brock looked dumbstruck. “Oh. Of course. I completely forgot."

He got up and detached a tiny button from his tac vest, then walked over to the barrier. Fitz typed something on the tablet, then the barrier shimmered and a roughly 1.5 by 1.5 feet large section right above the floor disappeared.

“That’s new", Brock commented as he crouched down and placed the camera on their side of the floor.

Fitz snorted. “I made some improvements when I saw a video of how they brought you your food. Four guards, that’s just a waste of resources."

“Well, we’d better get going now, before anything else happens", Jemma declared.

Brock looked seriously at them both. “We don’t know what exactly is Romanoff’s agenda. If she realizes that you can expose her, she might attack you, too. It’s probably better not to go straight to Coulson but to someone else you can trust. Is May here?"

Jemma nodded.

“Then she’s a good choice. Ask her to put Romanoff into containment, too, until we know what’s happening." Brock grimaced. “Although maybe not in the same cell as me. Kind of counter-productive, otherwise."

They heeded Brock’s advice. May listened doubtfully, but she was someone who preferred to err on the side of caution. A few phone calls later, she told Fitz and Jemma to lock themselves in her office until she gave the all clear. The two waited nervously. May’s office was close enough to Coulson’s that they belonged to the same sub-circuit of the announcement system, so a few minutes later they could hear Coulson’s voice over the speakers: “Captain Rogers, please stand down. What you’re experiencing is a sedative that will wear off in half an hour. We fear that Agent Romanoff might have been compromised and want to take her into protective custody. I repeat, please stand down."

That sounded as if the plan had worked. May had gotten a stun grenade with some of Jemma’s new sedative from the science department, and Skye had closed the fire doors at both ends of the corridor to restrict the spreading of the substance. Apparently, the concentration was not enough to knock out Captain Rogers. _Interesting. I will have to add that to my research notes._

Another few minutes later, and there was a series of knocks on the door. May’s all clear signal. When Fitz opened the door, they saw a group of heavily armed guards carrying an unconscious Agent Romanoff in the direction of the cells.

“I hope that this is a mistake", May said seriously. “But if Hydra has really managed to turn her, the Black Widow is the most dangerous person on this base. So I will accompany her to Vault D and stay there until this matter is solved. Rumlow will be put into one of the type-two cells. You two are wanted in the Director’s office."

“Please make sure that someone takes a blood sample. She might have been drugged", Jemma requested.

May nodded before hurrying after the group carrying her prisoner. Jemma and Fitz quickly made their way over to Coulson’s office. In one of the chairs, Steve Rogers sat with a slightly dazed look on his face, holding onto the arm rests tightly. On the floor with Coulson’s jacket under his head was Agent Barton. Jemma blinked. They must have carried him in from the hallway.

“Ah, good, you’re here. Agent Fitz, would you be so kind?"

Fitz quickly plugged a little adapter into Coulson’s computer, then connected the camera to the adapter. On Coulson’s screen, an image of the Playground’s hangar appeared, with a Quinjet half-descended through the open roof. As Fitz pressed a few keys, the video started running, and the loud noise of the jet’s engines filled the office. Fitz fast-forwarded through ten hours of flight, then started slowing the video down when the group disembarked.

“No, keep going", Captain Rogers ordered with a slightly hoarse voice.

It took the team half an hour to arrive at the base and get into position. Then they watched at doubled speed how Agent Barton’s arrows knocked out the guards, Captain Rogers smashed in the doors and Agent Romanoff threw a stun grenade inside.

“This is when we split up, can you turn on the audio now?", the Captain requested.

Silently, the group watched events unfold. Jemma gave an involuntary little scream when Brock was suddenly attacked by a group of Hydra agents. Yes, she had seen May, Hunter or Bobbi (and Ward – _don’t think about him_) handle similar situations before, but somehow it was different when it was her soulmate who had to dodge bullets. Her heart hammered as Brock crept along the corridor, only to be ambushed by more agents. Gosh, she really wasn’t made for this type of field work.

“It’s a pity the camera didn’t catch what’s happening on the comms", Coulson mused. “Agent Fitz, do you think you could add that to the next model?"

“Sure", Fitz replied.

And Captain Rogers explained: “At this time, we were all sweeping different parts of the compounds. They had lots of secret passages, but we managed to neutralize all the threats. At least, that’s what we thought."

Jemma’s heart nearly stopped again when the video showed a _huge_ amount of armed guards appearing on the balcony above Brock. If she hadn’t just seen him alive and healthy in the Vault... Ah. The Avengers rescued him. She let out a relieved breath. Until she saw a number of weapons being flung to the floor and heard Brock say: “Relax, guys. I’m not gonna flip sides just because I’ve touched a weapon for the first time in three months."

“Liar", an angry voice said from the floor.

“Agent Barton, I’m surprised you woke up so peacefully."

“I recognized your cologne on the jacket", the archer explained with a small grin as he sat up. “But now I wanna know what the fuck’s happening."

“We think there’s a very small possibility Agent Romanoff might have been compromised, so we wanted to take her into custody without anyone getting hurt."

The archer still looked angry. His gaze found Jemma, and he frowned. Did he think that Coulson had done this only to humour her? Well, it didn’t matter, they would soon find out the truth one way or the other.

On the screen, Brock and Agent Romanoff had separated from the other two in order to clean out the labs. Jemma’s expert eyes immediately recognized that the equipment was state-of-the-art. It looked as if the lab was usually used by many more than the four people present in the video, but the time stamp in the corner of the screen and a little math quickly told her that it must have been very early in the morning in Bulgaria when the raid happened. As one of the scientists said something to Agent Romanoff, Agent Barton sat up straighter.

“They recognized her", he explained quietly. “Why do they suddenly look so happy?"

And that was when it happened. One of the Hydra agents threw a liquid into Brock’s and Romanoff’s direction. Brock dove to the side so fast that the image got blurred, then he started to move towards the man – only to be thrown to the side once more. The field of view quickly turned with Brock and showed Romanoff. She moved a hand to her comms.

“Shit. Rumlow’s turned, I repeat, Rumlow’s turned. He’s just attacked me, and he has a gun."

“Nat, no", Agent Barton said with a pained voice.

They all watched tensely as the two fought. Brock hissed as Romanoff’s knife slashed his arm, then he vaulted over a lab bench. Glass broke. Jemma winced as he grabbed a small centrifuge (these things were _expensive_) and threw it in Romanoff’s direction. Then the rapidly moving camera told them that Brock ran out the door and along a hallway, until suddenly everything went dark. They heard an “Oomph!", closely followed by: “Cap, she lied. I didn’t..."

“What you see is my suit", Captain Rogers explained quietly as his voice on the speakers growled: “Once a traitor, always a traitor, hm?"

“I surrender, okay? Just don’t let her kill me." Brock sounded as if he could barely breathe. There was no reply, so they could all hear the approaching footsteps. Jemma felt a shiver down her spine as Brock gasped desperately: “Soulmate!"

Then there was a resonating sound, probably from the shield, and they listened to the Captain talk Romanoff down. It took suspiciously long until she gave in, as Agent Barton pointed out. Captain Rogers nodded.

“That sound you heard from my shield, that was her trying to stab Rumlow. By this point, he’d fallen unconscious." He seemed a little embarrassed. “I might have held onto him a little too tightly. Anyway, I carried him back to the Quinjet and stayed with him while Agent Barton coordinated with the Bulgarian S.H.I.E.L.D. staff. They had arrived by then and were taking the Hydra agents into custody."

“And Agent Romanoff?", Coulson asked.

“She accompanied me. Which is strange, now that I think about it."

The Director nodded seriously. “Alright, Agent Fitz, I think you can stop the video now."

“Wait a moment. You should see the end, when he was almost killed a second time." Fitz jumped to ten minutes before the end of the recording.

Judging from the perspective, Brock sat on the bed in Vault D. For a minute, nothing happened. Then they heard his breathing go faster. “What...? Shit, that’s not normal."

He got up and strode to the middle of the room, then banged his fist against the barrier. “Hey! Someone hear me? Something’s wrong with the... air..." Brock’s voice got lower with every word. It was almost physically painful to hear him fighting for breath. Then the field of view changed abruptly as Brock fell to the floor. It seemed to take forever until Jemma could see herself and Fitz running down the steps. They all listened to their conversation, then the screen turned dark as Brock removed the camera from his vest.

Silence.

“The liquid that the man threw at them", Jemma finally suggested. “Maybe it was some kind of drug?"

“Then why didn’t it affect Rumlow?", Coulson asked.

“I don’t know. But we have blood samples from both of them, maybe I can find out."

Agent Barton seemed skeptical. “But wouldn’t a drug make her attack everyone? Why Rumlow, specifically? She acted completely normal towards Cap and me."

Fitz, who had been doing something on the computer the whole time, piped up: “I might have found something. I had another look at the time between when the guy threw that liquid and when she attacked, and I saw something weird on the audio track. There’s a strong signal around 22 kHz, so just above the human hearing range. If I slow it down by a factor of ten..."

They were words. Russian, if Jemma wasn’t wrong. Barton had suddenly gone very pale. “It says, ‘Kill him without compromising yourself. Make sure the scientists can get away.’"

“How is that possible?", Coulson asked grimly.

“Well, they could have recorded the message normally and then just sped it up by a factor of ten...", Fitz started, only to be interrupted by his boss.

“That’s not what I meant. How is it possible that Agent Romanoff understood the message if it’s above the human hearing range? And why the hell did she obey the command?"

“I don’t know about the second yet, Sir", Jemma started, “but maybe her hearing is slightly better than average? It’s known that the hearing range varies strongly between individuals. Or, well, I guess you all saw how quickly that chemical evaporated. Maybe she breathed it in and it had an impact on her hearing? Since 22 kHz is close to what our ear can perceive anyway, the required changes might not have been too large."

Coulson looked at them all with a dangerous look on his face. “I want to know how Hydra managed to turn one of the best, most trusted members of this Agency. And I want to know if it’s permanent. Until then – both she and Rumlow have to stay in containment until we’re absolutely sure they are not being controlled."

Nobody dared to argue. Out in the hallway, a chagrined Captain Rogers said: “I guess I’ll have to apologize to Rumlow. He tried to tell me he was innocent, but I didn’t want to believe him. Damn it, I should have noticed something was wrong when Natasha kept insisting on killing him. She’s usually much more keen on making people suffer than killing them quickly." He blushed. “Okay, that sounded kind of creepy, but you know what I mean, right Clint?"

“Right", the archer confirmed. “But all that’s not important right now. What’s important is to find out how we get her back. Agent Fitz, the Bulgarian S.H.I.E.L.D. office recovered everything even remotely resembling a computer from that base, would you be willing to help analyze the data?"

“Of course", Fitz immediately agreed.

“Did you also bring any of those chemicals?", Jemma asked.

“Whatever the scientists didn’t destroy, yes", Captain Rogers answered. “Most of it’s still in the Quinjet."

“Actually", Barton said slowly, “this is a very good sign."

“What do you mean?", Rogers asked.

“Natasha acted according to the letter of the command, not the spirit. If she was really working for Hydra, she would have destroyed more of their work instead of letting us take it here. She only distracted us long enough that the scientists could get away, and she attacked Rumlow, of course, but that’s it."

Slowly, the Captain nodded. “You’re right. Agent Fitz, can you please check the recording of the fight in the lab to see if any other orders were given? And if all scientists had left the lab by the end of it, when Rumlow’s camera stopped monitoring Agent Romanoff? If no other orders were given, we can at least be fairly sure she won’t attack anyone else here at the base."

Fitz nodded. Jemma cleared her throat. “It would be a good idea to test if either Brock or Agent Romanoff react to stimuli at 22 kHz. And if they do, to repeat the experiments at a later time and correlate that with new blood samples, to see if it’s really a temporary effect caused by some chemical. Captain Rogers, maybe you could assist the medical staff when they have to draw blood from –" She almost said Agent Romanoff, then decided that the two Avengers would probably take her more seriously if she at least seemed to allow the possibility that Brock had been turned, too. They might be professionals, but they were also humans who’d just been betrayed by someone they loved like a sister. It would probably make it easier for them if they could console themselves that Brock, whom they still saw as something of an enemy, wasn’t somehow better than Romanoff because he’d been immune to Hydra’s suggestion. Taking all that into account, Jemma finished her sentence with: “Brock and Agent Romanoff. Just in case."

“Of course, I can do that", Captain Rogers agreed.

Barton suddenly remembered something. “If you want to look at how chemicals have degraded in the blood – I took a sample from Rumlow while we were in the air. Maybe an hour after we took off? Or just check the video if you need the exact time. The vial should still be in the little fridge inside the ’jet, together with everything we recovered from the base."

“_You_ drew a blood sample?", the Captain asked surprisedly. “Why?"

“Just a hunch", Barton shrugged.

His hunch was lucky for Jemma. She did find something in that older sample, which helped her identify the traces she detected in the sample taken from Brock after the debrief. The same compound was present in Romanoff’s sample, in a similar concentration. Then why hadn’t Brock been affected?

After an hour, Captain Rogers appeared at her door. He told her that Brock hadn’t reacted at all when they had streamed various signals at 22 kHz over the speakers in his cell. Without letting him know they were doing anything, of course. “Agent Romanoff, on the other hand – at first we told her, in English, to scratch her nose. And she did. Then we told her to slap herself, which she didn’t do. But she looked slightly confused, and when Agent May asked her if something was wrong, she claimed she had a headache. Then we repeated the nose scratching command, and this time she didn’t comply. When the command was repeated in Russian, it still had no effect. Agent May has asked her about what happened in Burgas. At first, she kept insisting that Rumlow attacked her. Then, after the experiment, she said she couldn’t remember anything after the moment when the scientist threw the chemical at her."

“That sounds as if the chemical is losing its effect", Jemma speculated. “Or Hydra is much more sophisticated than we give them credit for, and Agent Romanoff is an excellent actress."

“You can be sure about that last one", Captain Rogers said with a pained expression. “But I hope you’re right and it’s simply not working anymore."

Jemma nodded. “My colleagues are analyzing the chemicals you recovered from the base, but so far they haven’t found anything that matches what I detected in Brock’s and Agent Romanoff’s blood. We’re also still waiting for useful results from the evaluation of the computers and hard drives. Agent Fitz called me a few minutes ago to tell me that most of the files have been recovered, but apparently their filing system is horrible, and everything is in Russian. Which is remarkable, because almost everything we’ve recovered from Hydra up to now was in English – probably because Hydra’s leadership was in the US. Some of the older documents were in German, of course, and sometimes a scientist would take notes in his native tongue, which in this case should be Bulgarian."

Jemma realized she was babbling. She cleared her throat. “Anyway. I think it would be a good idea to keep both Agent Romanoff and my soulmate in protective custody a little longer."

“I agree", the Captain said seriously. “Well, if you need me, Agent Barton and I have a video conference with the Bulgarian S.H.I.E.L.D. office in the conference room next to Director Coulson’s office in ten minutes. Maybe they’ve managed to get something out of the guards we arrested."

Jemma wished him good luck, even though previous experience made her doubt that anyone would talk. As she later found out, her guess had been right: none of the captured Hydra agents had answered any questions. Some of them had even had cyanide capsules hidden in their teeth, which were luckily found before they could use them.

When she felt that staring at the blood results wouldn’t yield any useful additional information, Jemma joined the other scientists in analyzing the chemicals. Some time in the afternoon, Fitz came back to the lab, claiming that he worked better in his own lab than in a stuffy conference room. The day passed quickly. It was Friday, but due to the current emergency, the video night was cancelled. Instead, Skye joined Jemma and Fitz in their lab and joined in the effort to find something useful in the recovered files. Around midnight, they had a breakthrough.

As Skye explained in the briefing the next morning, when she stood with dark smudges under her eyes in front of Coulson, Rogers, Barton and the team of scientists: “We found a whole folder labeled ‘Red Room Operatives’, and in there a sub-folder ‘Natalia Romanova’. It contained some mission details, but mostly health data. Blood type, treatments she underwent during her training, how she performed in certain tests. And it had a partial analysis of her DNA. Then there was a cross-link to another folder labeled ‘Programma Robot’."

“Project Robot?", Coulson clarified.

Skye nodded. “Yes. It contains research into brainwashing. Not a complete personality change like what Whitehall was doing, or what we suspect happened to Sergeant Barnes. This Hydra cell developed tailor-made drugs which forced their test subjects to follow simple commands."

“And when we say tailor-made, we really mean specifically developed for one person, based on certain characteristics of their DNA. It looks like their success motivated them to develop drugs for everyone they saw as a potential target and whom they could get DNA samples from. Since they apparently had access to DNA samples of Agent Romanoff taken in her Red Room days, they were able to develop a serum specifically for her", Jemma took over.

Coulson nodded thoughtfully. “The chemical that the Hydra agent spilled in the lab. And that’s why it didn’t have any effect on Rumlow?"

“That’s what we think, yes. Initially, the notes showed that the subjects were given commands verbally. Then someone realized that it would be useful if the commands could be given without anyone else noticing, and that’s when they started working on making the subjects susceptible to stimuli above the normal human hearing range. Obviously, it worked."

“And did you find out how long the effects last?"

“Until the chemical is degraded. Which usually seems to take about a day, it varies between individuals. Probably because the substance is tailored to the DNA, so that’s why there are some differences."

“That means Agent Romanoff should be back to normal now?"

Jemma nodded. “To the best of our knowledge, yes. She already stopped reacting to commands at 22 kHz yesterday, and this morning she didn’t seem to hear anything at that frequency at all."

“Good. Than we will let her and Rumlow out of containment after this meeting. What worries me is that we’ve never heard about this Hydra cell before. Did you find anything about who might be leading it?"

It was Skye who answered the question. “In the lab journals, we found the names of some of the scientists, but nobody mentioned their boss."

“Did anyone else notice that their uniforms looked strange?", Agent Barton suddenly piped up.

Captain Rogers frowned. “Now that you say it – the cut looked a bit similar to what they used to wear during the war. Why do you ask?"

“Because I just remembered seeing some uniforms like that in the base in Egypt. Not during our attack, but later when Tony showed us footage of the rescue efforts".

He had everyone’s attention now. The Director asked pensively: “What you’re saying is that we might have stumbled over a Hydra cell that’s a bit old-fashioned, using different uniforms, self-destructing bases,..."

“Cyanide capsules hidden in their teeth", Rogers inserted.

“... and that has several bases, some of them maybe shared with normal Hydra fractions?"

Barton shrugged. “Seems like a logical explanation, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, the explosions destroyed all evidence in the Egyptian base, so we don’t know if they were working on brainwashing there, too. But if we can find more of their bases, we might find out what they’re planning and who we have to shoot to stop it."

“Arrest, Barton. Arrest, not shoot."

“Same difference", the archer waved him off.

Coulson made a long-suffering sigh. Then he gave out orders to various scientists to keep searching the recovered files for hints as to other bases, and to compile a list of people for whom they’d created the mind-control serum. Finally, when everyone was leaving the room, Jemma walked over to the Director and coughed.

“Sir, do you have a minute? About Christmas..."

  
* ∼ *

Brock’s night had been okay, considering. The cell wasn’t too bad, and he had faith that the recording from Fitz’s camera would ultimately clear his name. What worried him more was the prospect of waking up in the middle of the night to find the Black Widow trying to kill him again. But it seemed that Jemma and Fitz had managed to do what he’d asked and had gotten her into custody, too. Nobody came to question Brock, but he was brought dinner, and later breakfast. So, on the list of times he’d been incarcerated, definitely on the more pleasant side. He thought that it must be around mid-morning when a guard opened his door.

“You’re free to go. Director’s orders."

There, as he’d expected. Looking forward to a shower and clean clothes (he thought there were still some tiny glass shards embedded in his tac vest from when he’d fought Romanoff in the lab), Brock walked out the door and turned to make his way to his room. As he rounded the corner, he almost ran into the last person he wanted to see today. Brock stopped and was immediately on high alert.

“Romanoff."

She smirked. “Don’t worry, I don’t feel any urge to kill you. At least no more than usual."

“Glad to hear that", Brock retorted sarcastically. Then, with a wave of his hand: “Ladies first."

Of course she saw through his transparent ploy to get her to walk in front of him, rather than in his back. But maybe she did feel kind of bad about what had happened, for this time, she actually gave in to his request. At the next intersection, the pair was ambushed by Hawkeye. He was holding a bow and arrow, but the arrow wasn’t nocked. The archer grinned.

“Glad to have you back, Nat. Wouldn’t have liked to have to shoot you."

“I’m surprised you’re even here. Didn’t think Coulson was that invested in my safety", Brock commented dryly.

Barton shrugged. “Maybe it was more Agent Simmons’ safety that he was worried about. Anyway, we’re all good now, so – see you next time." Then the archer turned his full attention on Romanoff and put an arm around her shoulder. “I hate it when people try to brainwash one of us. Come on, Nat, let’s go home."

Brock looked after the pair a moment, marveling at the fact that this was his life now. Working with the Avengers, even though they still clearly didn’t trust him, and yet being allowed to see them in such private moments. He knew the two weren’t a couple, but still, for specialists of their caliber to show any feelings at all...

Talking about feelings, he’d really like to see Jemma without danger hanging over them. So Brock quickly showered and changed, then sent her a message via owl post that he was back in his room now. Less than thirty minutes later, there was a knock at his door.

“Hey. Good to see they let you out."

Brock smiled at her. “I have a feeling you played a large part in that."

“I might have." Jemma smiled back at him modestly. Brock noticed that she looked as if she hadn’t slept at all.

“Do you want to sit down?"

To Brock’s surprise, Jemma went straight to his bed and plonked herself down on it. She rubbed her eyes. “Gosh, I’m tired."

“Are you allowed to tell me what you found out?", Brock asked as he sat down next to her.

Jemma frowned. “I forgot to ask. But since you were a part of the mission anyway... We think the base belonged to a previously unknown Hydra cell. All their work is in Russian, and they had slightly different uniforms than usual."

“Now that you say it... The guards did look a little strange to me."

Jemma nodded. “Yes. It seems like the base was a science center where they worked on mind control. They developed drugs tailored to a person’s DNA that makes them obey commands given at a frequency above the normal human hearing range."

Brock nodded with dawning understanding. “That’s what happened to Romanoff. The chemical that that one guy threw at us." When Jemma only nodded, he asked: “Could you find out what command she was given?"

“Kill him without compromising yourself. Make sure the scientists can get away."

“Huh. Okay, that would explain why she didn’t attack the Captain. Do you know where the command came from?"

Jemma blinked. “No, we didn’t think about that."

“Hm. Well, it can’t have been any of the four scientists, two of them were already handcuffed and nobody had a device which would have been able to change the frequency of their speech. So either someone was hiding in another of those damn secret passages that had an exit in the lab, and where the door allowed sound to pass – or there were speakers in the lab, and somebody watched us from a control room or something similar."

“I’ll ask the Bulgarian S.H.I.E.L.D. department to have a look. If nothing else, knowing how exactly they gave that command might help us understand how they operate, and hopefully prevent something like that happening in the future."

“And was Romanoff successful with the second half of the command? Did the scientists get away?"

“Unfortunately, yes. And none of the guards have told us anything."

Brock sighed. “Yeah, it’s not often a Hydra agent spills the beans."

Jemma obviously noticed the irony in his tone, because she threw him an amused look and said: “Unlike you, you mean?"

“Hey, _former_ member of Hydra, here." Then he sobered. “It doesn’t matter. At the rate with which the Avengers are clearing out bases, we’ll probably run across this fraction again very soon. Maybe then we’ll be able to find out more."

Jemma nodded. “We did recover quite a few computers and hard drives from the base, and Coulson has us checking them for hints about other bases. Hopefully that will help. But I actually came to talk to you about something else." She sat up to be able to look at him better. “Remember that I said I wanted to take you home for Christmas?"

“Yes", Brock answered, absurdly feeling his heartrate speed up.

“I talked to Director Coulson today, and he said if your parole officer doesn’t object, he’ll give his okay."

Brock was surprised. “Wow. I didn’t think he’d let me out of this base without a watchdog who’s at least Level 7."

“I guess I was pretty convincing, then. Or maybe the Director hopes Kowalski will say no."

Brock cocked his head. “Unless I read him completely wrong, I’m sure Kowalksi will sign off on this trip. He seems like the type who wants to give you the chance to either dig yourself a hole deep enough to break your neck when you fall in it, or to really redeem yourself."

“In that case, I'd better call my parents to tell them we’re both coming", Jemma said happily.

Brock licked his lips. Okay, he was maybe a tiny bit nervous. Perfectly normal reaction. “When do you plan to go?"

“In ten days, Monday the nineteenth. Fitz will be going home as well."

For a mission, ten days of prep time was unusually long. But this wasn’t a normal mission. Firstly, the objective was a lot more muddy than usual – a large helping of _get Jemma’s family to like me_ with a little sprinkle of _don’t let anyone find out that I’m a former terrorist on parole_. Secondly, there would be no dossier with relevant information delivered to him. And thirdly, his partner probably didn’t even see the mission as such. Actually, Jemma would probably be quite perturbed if he told her he treated a holiday with her parents like a mission. _It’s the only way I know how to deal with difficult situations, okay? No need to be ashamed._

Brock coughed. “Did you or Coulson already send a note to Logistics?"

“To Logistics? Whatever for?"

Brock smiled self-deprecatingly. “Every piece of clothing I currently own is black and has the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo printed on it. With the exception of my tac gear, but that’s also not really suited for dinner with your parents."

Jemma’s mouth formed a surprised little “O". She blushed. “I did not even think about it. Gosh, what does it say about me that I didn’t realize I’ve never seen you in civilian clothes?"

“It says that you care more about people’s inner values than about their looks?", Brock tried with a smile.

Jemma smiled back at him, then hesitatingly leaned over to give him a chaste kiss. “You, Mister, are a charmer."

Brock laughed. “If you say so. Haven’t really had a chance to practice in recent years."

“Hm, you can practice all you want with me."

Brock liked kissing Jemma, he mused as they came up for air. He’d recently spent a few sleepless nights wondering how it would be to do more than kiss. But a part of him still felt like he didn’t deserve her, like he might scare her off if he pushed her too quickly.

Jemma smiled at him openly. “Alright. I’ll send a note to Logistics. Was there anything else?"

_Yes._ He needed to know more about her family. What were their interests? Any political / religious / moral convictions that he should be aware of in order not to offend anyone? Any sensitive subjects that he’d better not breach?

“No, I’m good."

Later. He didn’t want to weird Jemma out. He had ten days, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I'm still here – I hope you are, too :-). I'd be happy about comments, no matter how short. *Hint, hint.*


	12. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, many thanks to everyone who has left a comment. It's great to know that people enjoy this story :-).
> 
> Secondly – you've read the tags, right? Especially the "whump" one? Just checking... *hint, hint*
> 
> And thirdly, I hope you like smut ;-). This is the first time I wrote an explicit sex scene, and boy was it difficult. You might have noticed that English isn't my first language (which is why I try to avoid slang when writing dialogues). But I must say that neither my English lessons at school, nor a year spent as a student in an English-speaking country, nor any academic reading/writing or workplace discussions with international colleagues have prepared me for writing about sex. Why does the English language have so many words for male genitals? Penis, dick, cock, member, ...? And which one would Jemma use in her head? If you think I chose the wrong word, feel free to tell me, then I'll change it :-).
> 
> And now: Onwards with the story!

After her meeting with Brock, Jemma went to her lab. Yes, she was tired, she’d only slept four hours that night. But she was also _curious_ – the DNA results from the other soulmate volunteers had arrived on Friday morning, and due to the whole Brock-Romanoff-debacle she hadn’t had a chance to check them yet. So she turned on her computer and scrolled through the various tables and images. _Yes._ Exactly what she’d hoped for. Jemma started her correlation program to check the new data against her own, Fitz’s and Brock’ genomes just to be sure, but it looked as if the agents all shared the same thirteen mutations. She’d found the soulmate gene.

Jemma did a little happy dance through the lab, then plonked down on her swivel chair with a sigh. Now that this puzzle was solved, she had to tackle the next one. The much, much bigger one, unfortunately. If the DNA wasn’t altered by the activation of the soulbond, then where did the physical effects of the bond come from?

“Actually... What’s the difference between an active soulbond and a dormant one?", Jemma mused aloud. Something had to happen the moment two soulmates said their first words to each other – after all, the writing appearing on the skin was a very apparent reaction. Maybe she could find that out by sorting her samples according to the activity of the bond. Hers and Brock’s was active, obviously, while Fitz’s was dormant. She’d asked the other volunteers a few questions when they’d come to donate their blood, including how old the bond was and if it was active. Jemma looked into her files. Out of the three bonds, two were dormant and one was active. That was admittedly not a very large sample size, but it might give her some clues. At the very least, when she found regulatory mechanisms pertaining to the soulmate gene, comparing their activity between dormant and active bonds would help her identify which parts were responsible for the soulmark and which parts for all the other (for her more interesting) consequences.

It was mid-afternoon, and Jemma’s stomach was making itself known. _Oh._ She had completely forgotten about lunch. Jemma went across the hall to the small kitchen that she and Fitz shared with the other senior scientists. In the fridge, she had a small stock of yoghurts for exactly this type of emergency. As she stood at the small counter eating her snack, Jemma let her thoughts drift. They circled around the events of the last two days. Suddenly, Jemma had a revelation, quickly followed by a daring idea. Should she really...? Her posture straightened. _Why not?_

But she would need the right setting if she wanted her plan to succeed. _Maybe there’s still some... Yes!_ Each of the scientists had a little compartment in the freezer, and Jemma’s still contained enough frozen Chicken Tikka Masala from her last burst of anti-homesickness-cooking to last two people. Jemma took the owl post out of her pocket and pressed the message button.

“Hey Brock. Do you feel like having dinner tonight? I’ll cook and meet you at your room at seven?"

She was back in the lab by the time the little device crackled to life. Brock was calling her.

“Hey Jemma, can you hear me?"

Jemma quickly fumbled the owl post out of her lab coat. “Hello Brock."

“I’d love to have dinner with you. But don’t you think I should help you cooking for a change?"

Jemma couldn’t help but grin happily. She loved that he was making an effort, didn’t just expect her to take care of all the domestic stuff. “Thanks for the offer, but I was actually planning to just re-heat something I cooked a while ago. I’m afraid I didn’t order any ingredients yesterday, so we can’t actually cook anything fresh."

Brock chuckled. “Oh, I see. In that case, I’m looking forward to tonight. See you then."

It was good that Fitz was in a meeting with all the other techs involved with evaluating the data from the Bulgarian Hydra base, Jemma mused later. Otherwise he would have wanted to know why she couldn’t stop smiling all afternoon.

At seven sharp, Jemma knocked on Brock’s door. He opened so fast she wondered if he’d been waiting right behind the door. After placing the food on the table and distributing some water glasses, the two sat down to eat.

“So, how was your day?", Jemma asked cheerily. Brock grinned back at her. “Good. Woo came over earlier, he told me that the ducklings did very well on their first mission. One broken leg, that’s all, and they fulfilled the mission objective. That means they’ll go on to more specialized training now. Well, after Christmas, they were all given an early leave as a reward for their good work."

“That’s wonderful. I’m sure your training was part of why it worked out so well."

“With all the effort we put into it, I sure hope so", Brock joked. “But that means I’ll have much less to do the next days. Well, guess I’ll read a few books then. Or who knows, the Avengers might decide they want to do another raid before Christmas."

“Did you manage to reach Kowalski yet? I know it’s Saturday, but..."

“Oh, right, yes, sorry. He gave his okay. Once I managed to convince someone in our legal department to call him for me." Brock rolled his eyes. “I hope Coulson will trust me with a phone soon. It's getting really annoying that I always have to beg other people to do these little things for me."

Jemma grimaced. “Maybe the Director sees it as part of your punishment."

“I wouldn’t be surprised", Brock said grumpily.

Jemma grinned at him as she placed her cutlery on the plate. Brock had already finished a few minutes ago and was now cradling his water glass in one hand. He was a fast eater. When Jemma had asked him about it a while ago, he’d grinned and said that if you didn’t eat quickly in STRIKE, your team members would finish everything before you’d get a chance at a second helping. Immediately after, he’d looked kind of sad, probably remembering his dead team mates. Jemma didn’t like to see Brock sad. Which was why she now gathered her courage and prepared to share her earlier revelation with him.

“Brock, about what happened yesterday..."

“Hm?"

“When Skye told me that you’d attacked Agent Romanoff, I didn’t believe her. I was completely sure that there must be a reasonable explanation."

Brock looked at her seriously, but she thought she could detect some relief in his face.

“I thought about why. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for second chances, but usually it takes me longer to trust someone. I’ve been betrayed too often." Jemma could feel herself getting bitter, but that wasn’t the purpose of this little speech. So she ploughed on: “But then I realized that I stopped seeing you as a former Hydra agent quite a while ago. When I look at you now, all I see is my soulmate. And he's a person that I like a lot."

Brock’s serious expression morphed into a sort of baffled happiness. He took a sip of water to cover his surprise. Jemma smiled a little nervously. Now or never. “Brock, would you like to have sex with me?"

Brock choked on his water. When he could breathe again, he stuttered: “What? Do you mean, now? I – of course, but – isn’t it a bit too early?"

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those ‘don’t go further than first base on the first date’ people", Jemma said sarcastically. “If you insist on taking me out to dinner before having sex with me, I’m gonna feel as if you’re trying to pay me for it."

Brock looked mortified. “No, not at all. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve already asked you. It’s just... I’m not blind, Jemma. I see how many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents tense when they pass me in the hallway. I know your friend Skye is afraid of me – no, really, when I came into her office to ask about the owl post, she grabbed a weapon under her table. Coulson doesn’t exactly try to hide that he doesn’t trust me. The Avengers, well, they didn’t seem surprised when Romanoff claimed I’d attacked her. And I’m probably not wrong when I guess that you were the only one who believed me rather than her. The people you care about don’t like me. They think I’m a danger to you. Are you sure you want that level of intimacy with someone like me?"

“Not someone like you. I want it with _you_. You’re a better man than you give yourself credit for. And I don’t believe for one second that you could ever deliberately hurt me. I trust you, Brock." She grinned. “And for the record, Fitz shares my opinion. Which means something; after that whole Ward fiasco, he doesn’t trust easily."

Brock looked at her with something akin to awe on his face. “What did I do to deserve you?"

“What did _I_ do to deserve _you_?", Jemma shot back, letting her eyes exaggeratedly roam his body. Then she grew a bit more timid. “So what do you say? If you don’t want to, it’s okay, I won’t hold it against you–"

Brock muffled her words by kissing her passionately.

“So is that a yes?", Jemma asked a little breathlessly as they broke apart.

“Yes", Brock answered hoarsely.

Jemma grinned. “Well in that case..." She let her hands drift underneath his shirt, and Brock obligingly lifted his arms so she could pull it off him. Jemma hummed appreciatively.

“All that training agrees very well with you. I’m pretty sure there are more muscles than when I treated you on the Bus."

“As long as you like it..."

“Oh, definitely."

Brock allowed himself to be pushed back on the bed as Jemma explored his chest, his arms, his stomach. When she took one of his nipples into her mouth, he twitched and gasped: “Stop, I’m ticklish!" He pulled her into another kiss to distract her from that dangerous territory. As they came up for air a few minutes later, he asked: “My turn?"

When Jemma nodded, Brock carefully opened the buttons on her blouse. Equally slowly, he pushed the garment off her arms, and let his hands stroke over her bare skin, from her wrists up to her neck. Jemma closed her eyes with a sigh as he kneaded some of the tension out of her neck and shoulders.

“Too much work the last few days?"

Jemma nodded slightly.

“And I bet at least some of it was ’cause of me."

Before Jemma could protest (even though it was true, she’d worked through most of the previous night because of Bulgaria), Brock had captured her lips in another kiss. “Let me relax you..."

His clever hands worked wonders on her tense muscles before they moved down to open the clasp of her bra. When it was gone, Brock didn’t do anything but look at her for a few moments.

Jemma shifted, feeling slightly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “Brock?"

“So pretty", he repeated her soulmark words. Then he leaned forwards and started kissing his way from her neck down to her breasts. “That day on the pyramid", he whispered against her skin, “I tried not to look, but well, I couldn’t really help it. I’ve been dreaming about doing this ever since..." With that, he took one of her breasts into his mouth, his hand finding the other one.

Jemma felt heat pooling in her core. God, how she wanted this. How she wanted _him_. But she also didn't want things to turn awkward between them because of this night, so she'd better–

“Brock?"

“Hm?"

“Just so you know – I’m not very loud during sex. That doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying it."

Brock looked up at her from where he was savouring her breast, and the confused look on his face was so cute she almost forgot what she was going to say. But somehow it seemed important that he knew.

“First boarding school, then a dorm at college, that meant a lot of silent masturbating."

Brock laughed, which unfortunately meant that he stopped what he’d been doing. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I spent those fun years of my late teens, early twens in the army. Wasn’t much different there." He ran a hand through her hair affectionately. “Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure I’ll notice if you’re enjoying it." He grinned at her, then threw her a questioning glance and tugged slightly at the waistband of her jeans.

“You, too", Jemma demanded teasingly, and they both got up to get rid of the rest of their clothes.

It was very obvious that Brock was aroused by her. That knowledge only served to highten Jemma’s arousal, too. They lay next to each other on his bed, just exploring each other’s bodies a little, before Brock whispered: “I haven’t had sex in more than three years. If we keep this up much longer, I think I’m gonna come just from that."

Jemma chuckled. “Don’t worry, I totally understand. And I plan on doing this very frequently in the future, so there’ll be enough time for it later. And anyway, I’m getting a little impatient myself..."

Still grinning, Jemma pushed against Brock’s shoulder, and he obediently rolled onto his back. Jemma quickly jumped off the bed and fished a condom out of her jeans. “I’m on birth control and I know that Medical would have told us if we weren’t clean – but I guess you don’t have a second set of sheets, right?"

Brock shook his head ruefully. As Jemma returned to bed and put the condom on him, Brock murmured hoarsely: “Always so well prepared. A woman after my own heart."

Jemma kissed him in reply, then climbed on top of him and grabbed his penis to guide it inside of her. Brock groaned with pleasure.

“Hm... I know what you mean...", Jemma said huskily. It felt good. Really, really good. She also hadn’t done this in quite a while. Her last one-night stand had been during her Academy days, with a student who hadn't been half as athletic or attractive as Brock.

Jemma moved against the rock-hard body beneath her. She angled her hips _just so_ to get more friction – oh yes. Just like that. Brock was breathing heavily. His large warm hands were stroking Jemma’s back, moving downwards to cup her ass occasionally. Oh God, this felt so good. They kissed again.

“Jemma. I don’t think I can wait much longer", Brock warned her, sounding almost apologetic.

“Won’t... have to...", Jemma replied, quite out of breath. She could feel that she was close, too. Just a tiny – little – bit – more – oh. _Yes._ It wasn’t only her vaginal muscles clenching, her whole body was twitching again and again and again for what felt like forever. Jemma was so caught up in the sensation that she almost didn’t notice Brock gasping and stiffening beneath her before he relaxed. As she finally collapsed limply on top of her soulmate, Jemma giggled. “Woo-hoo. Endorphins. Thank you, nature, for rewarding our efforts at procreation."

“Jemma, you’re one of a kind", Brock said with a fond smile. “God, I love you."

Jemma lifted her head to meet his gaze. Brock suddenly looked startled. “Shit, did I say that out loud? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it awkward, I know it’s too soon–"

This time it was Jemma who muffled him with a kiss. “Shh, stupid. It’s okay, I love you, too."

“You do?"

The surprise in his voice broke Jemma’s heart. She kissed him again. “Of course I do. Stupid hair and everything."

“My hair’s not stupid", he retorted automatically, but his grin was happier than she’d ever seen.

“Things are looking up, Brock. Despite what you've said, I think that people are getting used to you, Coulson's giving you more and more freedom, plus, you're doing very important work with the Avengers. I bet that a year from now, you’ll be back to being a normal S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. I think we have a bright future ahead of us."

Brock was staring up at her with an unreadable expression. Then he suddenly pulled her head down and kissed her passionately. When they needed to come up for air, he wrapped his arms around her body and pressed his cheek to hers. Now she couldn’t see his face anymore, but the dampness that she felt against her cheek and the shaking of his chest told her that he was crying. Jemma hoped that they were tears of joy. She granted him a few moments to gather his composure before she lifted her head and kissed him again. Then she gave him a lopsided smile.

“Not that I want to kill the mood, but – I think if you don’t go to the bathroom soon, using the condom will have been useless."

That got Brock to laugh, at least. While he was away, Jemma hunted for some boxer briefs in his single set of drawers. After she’d cleaned up, too, they curled up on his bed together. As Brock carded his fingers through her hair, he whispered: “I still don’t know why fate thinks I deserve you. But now that I’ve _got_ you, I’ll do anything in my power to be worthy of you. To keep you."

“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere."

To prove her words, Jemma stayed the night. They had breakfast in the mess together, then Jemma accompanied Brock to the gym. Ostensibly, she wanted to use the treadmill to improve her stamina (now that she was going on field missions again, Jemma had the feeling that she might have to run for her life again, soon). Watching Brock’s muscles bulge as he used the weight machines was a nice bonus, though. After they’d had lunch, they went back to Brock’s room and his bed, which they didn’t leave for the rest of the day.

  
* ∼ *

On Monday morning, Brock received a message from Coulson. Since he still didn’t have a phone or computer, the message came in the form of a surly agent who pressed a piece of printed paper in Brock’s hand. It read: “Rumlow. Since you managed not to kill anyone on your last mission, the Avengers and I have decided to allow you to use ICERs in the future. Report to the weapons range at 09:00 today for further instructions."

The note wasn’t even signed. Brock was happy nevertheless. Being completely unarmed on a mission made him nervous, and hopefully the Avengers wouldn’t be too uneasy with him using ICER guns. Also, it meant less chances of someone trying to frame him for any “accidental" deaths if he didn’t have a real firearm.

The instructor at the firing range showed Brock the changes that had been made to the ICER guns compared to the version he’d used before the Hydra uprising. Then he told Brock that he was now allowed to come to the range to practice: They had training versions of the guns that only shot laser beams at the targets. Better than nothing, Brock supposed. Also, with the ducklings gone it meant he now had a second item on his daily timetable besides “go to the gym". Well, third item, because “spend the evening with Jemma" was definitely an important point, too. They even managed to talk a little. Brock unobtrusively steered the conversation towards the topic of Jemma’s family and found out quite a few things.

Jemma’s parents were called Sarah and David. They were both in their mid-fifties and lived in a small village near Sheffield. David was head gardener at a National Trust property, while Sarah was an art historian who also worked for the National Trust. Brock thought that was an interesting combination of occupations, but hey, who was he to judge. Jemma assured him that neither of her parents were very religious, political or otherwise easy to offend, which should have been reassuring. At least Jemma didn’t notice his nerves, and Brock was glad that all those years of fooling people were useful for _something_. He would be fine.

On Friday, however, Brock had to find out that an ICER alone wasn’t always sufficient. The mission started normal enough. They were raiding a base in Luxemburg, which meant an unfortunate amount of time cooped up in a Quinjet with the two Avengers – two because Rogers wasn’t accompanying them today. Stark had blackmailed him into attending a charity gala, apparently people who often caused property damage needed to sing and dance for the public every now and again. Brock didn’t envy Rogers at all, in fact, he was glad undercover missions at such events didn’t seem to be a part of his near future.

The base itself was nothing remarkable, a warehouse that supposedly belonged to a company selling industrial-size fridges and freezers to restaurants. Their intel said that Hydra used it to distribute weapons to their sleeper agents in this and all neighbouring countries. The trouble started when Hawkeye discovered a hidden entrance to a basement level. Below ground, they met much more resistance than in the warehouse itself and got separated in the warren of tunnels. At least their comms still worked, so they could describe their respective positions and try to meet up again. Brock still wasn’t worried, now that he had an ICER gun it was easy to down Hydra’s guards. Or so he thought.

Suddenly, the lights turned out. Brock swore inwardly. He used to always have a pair of infrared goggles in one of the many pockets of his tac vest. But since he got equipped on a mission-to-mission basis nowadays and they hadn’t expected to go underground this time, he didn’t have any now. Brock put his left hand on the wall and crouched down slightly, so at least his head wouldn’t be where people expected it.

“Lights out where you are, too?", he murmured into his comms. The other two confirmed that they were in the dark, too. It didn’t change their plans, though. Mercifully, Brock seemed to have eliminated all Hydra agents in his immediate surroundings. He carefully crept forward, until suddenly his left hand felt nothing but air. Brock stopped. A room or a corridor? He went back a step to feel for a door frame or something similar when there was the slightest air movement behind him. Instinctively, he dove to the side. There was someone there. Brock aimed his ICER in the general direction of the noise and fired, but didn’t hear a thud to indicate he’d hit his attacker. _Damn._ Did the other person have night-vision glasses? Should he try to sneak away or to attack? Brock rolled to be a harder target in case the other person was able to see him, then got up and fired a second shot. But whoever his attacker was, they must have observed his movement and gotten behind him, because he was suddenly hit from behind by something solid and lost consciousness.

When Brock woke up, his head pounded. That wasn’t his main problem, though. He was lying flat on something hard, wearing nothing but his pants, and was restrained not only by his ankles and wrists, but also his thighs, chest and upper arms. To top it all off, there was a dark cloth bag over his head that prevented him from seeing anything and made breathing much more difficult. _Shit, shit, shit._ Was he still in the same base as before? Or had they somehow managed to get him out without the Black Widow or Hawkeye noticing? Somehow, Brock didn’t think those two had been captured, too – what they’d seen of the basement hadn’t been large enough to hold that many soldiers. Either way, they’d probably get him out soon, but he’d never hear the end of it.

“How hard did you hit him, Agent Smis?", a middle-aged male voice with a very strong German accent asked after a few more moments.

“Wasn’t all that hard", a Texan voice answered.

“Sen maybe he is just playing dead, yes? Vy don’t you vake him up."

Brock grunted as something hit his stomach.

“Ah, Mister Rumlow. So nice of you to join us. It has been a vile since you visited Hydra, yes?"

_Fuck. They know who I am._ Brock didn’t answer. First rule of resisting interrogation: Don’t say anything, then you also won’t spill any secrets.

“Hm. I see sat you are not feeling very chatty. Vell sen, let me ask you some questions. Is it true sat you have a soulmate in S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

Again, Brock stayed silent.

“Ve have seen se mark, so ve know she exists. But don’t vorry, ve do not seek to harm her. Ve just vant to understand vy you have betrayed us."

This time, they hit his ribs. Several times. Brock was quite sure that something cracked. Shit, he hated getting tortured for information.

“Mister Smis, please, don’t kill him yet. Ve vant answers first."

“If you want answers, I’ll get you answers", Smith promised menacingly. “Wait a second."

Brock tried to breathe through the pain in his ribs. They certainly meant business. But he hadn’t made it to Commander of STRIKE Team Alpha without any SERS training – not to mention what Hydra had done to toughen up their recruits. When something pricked his neck and he found himself relaxing despite his situation, Brock immediately knew what was up. _Careful, now. That feels like an interrogation drug. Keep your mouth shut, Rumlow._

“Now, Mister Rumlow, I ask you again: Vy did you betray us?"

A part of Brock’s mind was convinced that they were just having a nice chat amongst friends. Why shouldn’t he answer? _No._ Brock bit his tongue.

“Hm, maybe ve should start vis somesing easier. Vat did you tell S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

Brock balled his fists and tried to recall the S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook section numbers. Anything to distract him from the urge to answer. The German kept asking him questions that Brock refused to react to for a few more minutes, then he growled frustratedly: “Mister Smis, sis is not vorking. Ve need somesing stronger."

Smith laughed. “No problem, doc. Stand back."

There were some clanking sounds, then the table Brock lay on was tilted slightly to elevate his feet. _Fuck. Waterboarding._

Someone, probably that Smith guy, grabbed Brock’s chin and forced his mouth open, stuffing some of the bag covering his face into his mouth. Then the water started flowing. They started at his chest, then slowly worked their way towards his face. When they reached his mouth, the cloth made sure that the water ran into his throat and Brock had no choice but to swallow. And swallow. And swallow. It felt like downing a barrel of beer at a frat party – except it wasn’t beer, and there was no clear end in sight. At some point, Brock started choking. That’s when they also poured water into his nose. Now there was water everywhere and he _just couldn’t breathe_. It felt like he was drowning. When Brock was close to passing out, the water stopped, and someone took the cloth out of his mouth. Brock hungrily gasped for air, spitting out water. One deep breath, two, three, four – then the cloth went back in and the process started again.

In the 2002 Torture Memos, the CIA had gotten permission to use waterboarding, provided a single session didn’t take longer than twenty minutes. Brock was pretty sure Hydra didn’t feel obliged to abide by those rules. It seemed to take forever until the German ordered: “Enough!"

Brock was relieved on a very primal level when Smith pulled the cloth completely from Brock’s mouth and pushed the bag slightly up so that he still couldn’t see anything but was able to breathe freely. Well, after he’d stopped coughing up water that had gotten into his lungs. Nevertheless, Brock’s higher brain functions told him that it would have been better to lose consciousness and thus avoid further interrogation. Predictably, the German didn’t grant him a break.

“Now, Mister Rumlow. Let me ask you again. Vat did you tell S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

Brock didn’t answer. The German growled in frustration.

“Ve can repeat sat as often as you vant. Mister Smis, I’ll leave you to it. I vill come back later."

The door shut. Brock waited for the water to flow again. Instead, there was a small pause, then Smith said in a pensive voice: “You know, after Insight, when Pierce was dead and it became clear that Medical could stitch you back together, the other Heads started arguing who would get you. I hear you’re working with the Avengers now and have a soulmate in S.H.I.E.L.D. If you can offer good intel, the higher-ups might still forgive and forget."

Could you call it good cop-bad cop routine if the one playing good cop was also the one performing the torture ordered by the bad cop?, Brock mused as he lay there, still gasping for breath. _Whatever they’re playing at, I’m not gonna give in that easily. Never mind that I don’t want anything to do with Hydra, my loyalty’s with Jemma now._ And once Brock decided to be loyal to something or someone, he was willing to sacrifice a lot.

When Brock didn’t answer, Smith stuffed the cloth back into his mouth and started again. Brock lost track of time.

He must have passed out at some point because he suddenly woke with a start. Heat raced from his neck down his arms and up to his head.

“Sat should vake him up."

“I hope so. I still have other things to do, you know", Smith grumbled.

“Don’t vorry. I know somesing sat vill surely make him talk", the German said derisively.

Brock wondered what it was they’d injected him with. Adrenaline? Or something more sinister? And where the fuck were Barton and Romanoff when you needed them? He must have been in Hydra’s clutches for a few hours at least. Ever so slowly, doubt started creeping in. What if they didn’t find him before the German got fed up by Brock’s refusal to offer up intel and decided to kill him? Brock didn’t have a death wish, but he’d always known he might be killed in the line of duty. However, things had changed dramatically now that Jemma’s life was at stake, too. Should he offer up _something_ to keep them interested?

_No. Once you start that kind of thing, there’s no stopping. The guy doesn’t sound like he’s bored yet._

“Mister Rumlow. You are being quite impertinent. To speed sings up, I have come up vis a more... permanent incentive." Well, that sounded ominous. Something metallic clinked, then a cold blade moved along Brock’s fingers.

“Mister Smis, I vonder... Vich finger vould a soldier miss most?"

Brock felt his heartbeat pick up. Waterboarding promised momentary pain and terror without permanent physical harm (well, unless they got over-enthusiastic and actually drowned him). He could deal with that. But losing a limb was torture on a whole different level.

“Take the index finger on his right hand", Smith drawled.

Brock felt the knife shift. Giving in suddenly seemed like a very attractive option. But if he wanted even the slightest chance of Coulson ever trusting him again, Brock had to prove that he was truly dedicated to S.H.I.E.L.D. – and what better way to show his dedication than by protecting the Agency’s secrets at all costs? _Remember the Cradle. Even if they cut off the whole_ hand, _the Cradle can regrow it._ That wouldn’t make the actual injury any less painful, though. Brock’s heart was still hammering.

“Now, Mister Rumlow, last chance. Vat did you tell S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

_Keep quiet, keep quiet, keep quiet_, Brock chanted mentally. Officially, he was ranking lower than Level 1 right now, and Level Ones were not expected to resist torture of this magnitude. However, Brock still _felt_ like the Commander he once used to be, and he owed it to his former (now probably dead) team mates to hold up STRIKE Team Alpha’s honor. So he kept his mouth shut, even as the German started cutting. God, that guy was incompetent. Or maybe scarily competent, depending on the viewpoint. When you cut off a finger, you were supposed to make a swift, forceful cut with a sharp knife, not saw it like wood. Think carrot, not bread. _Motherfucking son of a– bloody– oh God–_

There might have been some screaming. When they were done, one of the men applied a crude bandage to the remaining stump. They probably didn’t want Brock to bleed out on the spot. Judging by the slow dripping of hot liquid from his hand, they didn’t do a very good job. Holy fuck, he hoped Hawkeye and the Widow were looking for him.

“Now, sat vas not so pleasant, vas it? Ven I ask you se next question, I vant you to remember sat you have nine more fingers. And ten toes." There was no denying the dark glee in the German’s voice. Brock refused to react even though the thought alone made him feel sick. The man kept asking questions, and Brock kept ignoring him.

“Mister Smis, vat do you sink? Se right sumb?"

Brock’s heart missed a beat. He could feel the toll both the cold and the blood loss were having on him. If they took his thumb, too, he would definitely pass out. And if the two Avengers didn’t hurry, he might not wake up again. _I can’t let Jemma die because I was stupid enough to get caught by Hydra_, Brock thought sluggishly. But if he gave something up now, the two men would know exactly how to pressure him into giving up _everything_.

While Brock still desperately tried to find a way out of this dilemma, Smith harrumphed. “He’s lost a lot of blood. If we cut off another finger, he’ll need an infusion. Should I get one?"

“No", the German replied after a moment. “I’m hungry. Let’s get some food first, sen ve come back. He’s not going anyvere."

Smith made an affirmative noise. With a dark chuckle, he pulled the bag back down over Brock’s mouth, muttering something about letting Brock enjoy the full experience. Footsteps, then the light turned off and the door closed with a resounding bang.

Brock allowed himself a shuddering breath. _Come on, hurry up._ If he was lucky, this unexpected reprieve would buy enough time for Barton and Romanoff to break him out before the Hydra agents came back. He very much hoped so. Brock knew that if his captors made sure he didn’t die, he _could_ hold out longer if he had to, he just really, really didn’t want to.

Even though he knew it wouldn’t help, Brock tried once again to get out of the restraints. All that earned him was an increased throbbing in the stump of his right index finger. (Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, _don’t think about it_.) Maybe he could at least get rid of the damned wet bag over his face? Being able to breathe freely would be great. Brock shook his head, and when that didn’t accomplish anything, carefully tried to trap the cloth between the back of his head and the table and push it upwards by moving his head – nope, no success there, either. He stopped, struggling for breath. God, he _really_ hoped they hurried.

Brock drifted off again, then woke up with a hammering heart. Were those gunshots? He listened hard. Yes, definitely sounds of fighting, and they were coming closer. Screaming for help might help his rescuers find him faster, or it might remind his captors to kill him rather than let him escape. Well, with the bag over his head he wouldn’t be able to yell very loudly, anyway. So Brock waited silently, wavering between faith in STRIKE Team Delta’s competence and fear that Hydra might still kill him (and Jemma) when rescue was _so close_.

A few minutes later, the door banged open. “Rumlow?"

Brock had never been so glad to hear Barton’s voice. His answering “Here!" was more a croak than a shout, but the other man still heard him.

“I found him." From Barton’s tone, Brock assumed that the agent had spoken into his comm. Even through the cloth, he could see the light turning back on. Barton obviously had some experience with waterboarding himself, because the first thing he did was to rip off the bag. Brock took a deep breath. _Finally._

“Any immediately life-threatening injuries?", Barton asked curtly as he started removing the restraints around Brock’s ankles.

“No. But I don’t know how cracked my ribs are, so if we can avoid situations where we have to dive to the ground, that’d be great."

Barton froze for a split second as he freed Brock’s right hand and his eyes fell on the bloody bandage. For an archer, losing that finger must be even more horrible than for Brock.

“Please tell me you brought the Cradle", Brock rasped as the other man pulled him into a sitting position.

“We did." Barton let his gaze sweep the room, which probably meant he committed every little detail to memory. His eyes zeroed in on a small device on a table next to Brock, which he quickly pocketed. Then he asked: “Did they drug you? Anything I should take home for Medical?"

“Yes, and I don’t know", Brock answered. He had to take a few shallow breaths before he could add: “Kept me blindfolded the whole time, I have no clue what they injected me with."

“Still feeling the effects?"

“A little. Interrogation drug, lowered inhibitions, slight wooziness. Has gotten better, though."

“Okay. Can you walk?"

“Let’s try."

Barton threw Brock’s left arm over his shoulder and pulled him up. His ribs protested vehemently, and the world tilted slightly, but Brock had made getaways in worse condition.

“Lead on."

They were slower than Brock would have liked, and by the way Barton kept looking over his shoulder also slower than _he_ would have liked. The sounds of fighting were muted, as if coming from another part of the base.

“Who else is here?"

“Only Nat."

Okay, that was a bit surprising. Yes, the two had been the only Avengers this side of the Atlantic, and the main S.H.I.E.L.D. crew was also in the States, but taking on a whole Hydra base on their own? _Well, they are STRIKE Team Delta. It’s not as if they haven’t done this type of thing before._

Brock didn’t recognize his surroundings. That wasn’t surprising, bringing him to a base he knew would have been stupid even by Hydra’s standards. The base was quite similar to most other underground lairs, though, lots of bare concrete and fluorescent lighting, no windows. And it was damn _cold_ in there. Wearing nothing but his cargo pants and still moist from the waterboarding, Brock felt like an icicle. He was very glad when they reached a thick set of steel doors, propped open by two dead bodies in Hydra uniform. Outside, it was pitch black and raining.

“It’s a short sprint to the Quinjet", Barton explained apologetically. “Sorry for that."

Brock gritted his teeth and tried not to stumble too much on the rough terrain. The ’jet was cloaked, it seemingly appeared out of thin air as Barton pressed a button on his belt. At least it was dry and marginally warmer inside. Barton helped Brock lower himself into one of the seats.

“We’ll put you in the Cradle once we’re in safer air space. I wouldn’t put it past Hydra to have some anti-aircraft missiles."

Brock nodded. Then he hesitated. Normally he wouldn’t ask, not with treatment less than an hour away, but... He was very cold and very tired, and both his ribs and his finger _hurt_.

“Barton. You got any pain meds?"

The archer looked at Brock’s hand and winced. “We do, but – Doctor Cho said any chemicals in one’s system can mess with the Cradle’s work. We’ll have to check your blood before we can put you in, Nat’ll do that, she’s better at drawing blood neatly than I am. I mean, if you really need it, I can give you something, but then we’ll have to wait with the Cradle until we’re back at S.H.I.E.L.D."

Brock wanted to get his finger back as soon as possible, so he just sighed and replied: “No, it’s fine."

“Here, take that at least." Barton shoved a space blanket in Brock’s uninjured hand. “I’ll go and start the engines."

Clumsily, Brock strapped in first, not wanting to tumble around the Quinjet in case they had to evade any Hydra attacks. Equally clumsily, he then unfolded the blanket and wrapped it around himself. It helped a little. At least the tremors eased somewhat. Tiredly, Brock told himself that it was almost over. Hawkeye and the Black Widow would get them all out of here, the Cradle would stitch him back together, and before morning, he would be back with Jemma. That thought actually warmed him more than the blanket could.

From the cockpit, Brock could hear Barton’s voice. “Nat? We’re in the ’jet, what’s your status?"

Whatever she answered, Barton turned on the engines and, leaving the rear ramp open, lifted a few inches off the ground. A couple of minutes later, there was the sound of a large explosion and the Quinjet rocked slightly to the side before righting itself. Shortly after, Romanoff sprinted inside and hit the button to close the ramp.

“Rumlow", she acknowledged him neutrally before continuing on to the cockpit, probably to man the guns.

Brock felt the ’jet rising quickly. He closed his eyes. In his condition, there was nothing he could do to help, anyway. God, he was tired. Except for the few hours of unconsciousness after Catalina Island, Brock had never allowed himself to sleep in the presence of an Avenger. But Barton and Romanoff had just risked their lives to rescue him, surely they wouldn’t move against him _now_, right? That’d just be unfair. And Brock had drained all his reserves, he simply couldn’t fight anymore. So Brock surrendered to his own body’s weakness, leaned his head against one of the support structures and – lulled by the noise of the engines – drifted off within seconds.

“Rumlow." Her voice was slightly more worried this time.

Brock opened his eyes and found Romanoff crouching in front of him. They were flying smoothly, the engines much quieter now. The redhead was holding a syringe, a rubber band and some antiseptic spray. And she looked as if she was waiting for something. They stared at each other for a few seconds. _Oh._

“Romanoff."

She nodded. “Glad to see you’re awake. I’m going to draw some blood now, to see if it’s safe to put you in the Cradle. Okay?" Brock nodded silently.

Romanoff wrapped the rubber band tightly around his left arm, sprayed some of the antiseptic into the crook of his arm and told him to make a fist. Then she hummed disapprovingly. “Not very easy to find a vein. Did you lose a lot of blood?"

Brock huffed. “They cut off my damned finger, of course I lost a lot of blood."

“Huh." Romanoff squinted at his arm, finally slid the tip of the syringe into his skin. She opened the rubber band and told him to relax his hand. Apparently, it took longer than it should have to fill the small tube attached to the syringe, because she told him to open and close his hand a few times.

Then, out of nowhere, she asked: “Did they just want revenge, or were they interrogating you?"

“They’re Hydra. What do you think?"

“Hm. Did you tell them anything?"

“Of course not", Brock said tiredly. “I thought you’d read my file. They’d have to do a lot more than cut off my finger to get me to talk."

“What if they’d cut off your soulmate’s finger instead?"

Brock felt his insides freeze at that thought. He wanted to answer that he’d never let anyone put a hand on Jemma. But never was a difficult word in their business. Finally, he said: “If they were, say, the CIA or the KGB – then maybe. If they were Hydra, I know it wouldn’t make a difference if I talked or not, so no, I still wouldn’t tell them anything."

Romanoff studied him intently, then nodded slowly. When she returned her attention to the syringe, she made a satisfied noise, removed the needle, pressed a small bandage to the site and told Brock to keep pressure on it as she inserted the tube with his blood into a side port of the Cradle.

They didn’t have to wait long until the machine started beeping and a green light lit up next to the side port. “You’re clean. Good. Any injuries besides your ribs and hand?"

Brock guessed what she was really asking was, do you have to take off your pants? “No", he answered truthfully.

“Then come on."

Brock was slightly mortified to realize he couldn’t get up on his own. His muscles had completely frozen up. Romanoff huffed. “Okay, I’ll let Barton do the heavy lifting."

Very funny. At least the archer didn’t make any snide comments as he pulled Brock up and pretty much dragged him over to the Cradle. He had to help him get in, too. Then he unwrapped the bandage, and Brock hissed with pain as the thin layer of scabbing got ripped open again. He made the mistake of looking at his hand, then quickly averted his eyes. That was _not_ something he ever wanted to see again.

Barton cleared his throat. “Apparently, bone reconstruction hurts a lot. So Doctor Cho built in some special kind of sedation for these cases that doesn’t interfere with the Cradle’s work. When I close the lid, the Cradle will be flooded with a gas, and you’ll sleep. Once the healing’s done, the machine will filter out the gas and you’ll wake up again. Okay?"

It wasn’t as if Brock had much of a choice if he ever wanted to get his finger back. “Sure, whatever. Just get started already."

Barton didn’t seem put out by Brock’s grumpiness, he just nodded and started pressing buttons. The lid slid closed with a low whirring sound, then there was a quiet hissing and the world turned dark.

When Brock came back to consciousness, the lid of the Cradle had opened already. The first thing he did was to look at his hands. All fingers back to normal, even though his right hand (except for the index finger) was still covered in dried blood. Relieved, Brock allowed himself a deep sigh. Ow. Right, the Cradle could only heal injuries that were accessible from the outside. Well, it wasn’t the first time he’d hurt his ribs. He knew how to work around the pain. Carefully, Brock sat up. All muscles seemed to be in working order. Looking around, Brock realized that Barton and Romanoff must still be in the cockpit. A part of him – a surprisingly _large_ part, actually – was still stuck on being tortured and losing a finger, and wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep to forget it all. Preferably with Jemma hugging him and telling him everything would be alright. All he would have to do was to lie back down in the Cradle and close his eyes.

Brock sighed a second time. He hadn’t become Commander of STRIKE Team Alpha by shying away from difficult tasks. So he carefully stood up and climbed out of the Cradle. Now that he was at least partially healed, he could do something about the coldness that still seemed to permeate his bones. Every Avenger had a set of fresh clothes stored on the Quinjet, and now that he accompanied them on a regular basis, Brock had been allowed to bring some as well. He quickly changed, sighing with relief when he’d put on a warm jacket and boots. Just as Brock had rubbed most of the dried blood off his hand with a rag, the door to the cockpit slid open and Barton stuck his head inside.

“So, how are you?"

“Mostly intact. Tired and thirsty, though."

It was only when he said this that Brock realized just how thirsty he really was. Barton grabbed behind himself, then threw him an unopened bottle of water. He grinned slightly.

“Yeah, I can imagine."

“How long did they have me?", Brock asked after he had taken a few sips.

“Almost thirty hours."

Brock’s eyebrows almost hit his hairline. “You’re kidding."

Barton shook his head.

“What took you so long?"

“We couldn’t find you. That room you were in had about a foot of lead lining, the tracking signal couldn’t penetrate it."

“Oh." Yes, that would make a rescue more complicated. “Then how did you find me?"

“The vehicle they transported you in must’ve been shielded as well, but not the whole base was. So while they carried you from the car to the interrogation room, the tracker sent out a handful of beeps. It took Stark a while to retroactively find them, though."

Brock frowned. Something wasn’t adding up. If only he wasn’t so tired, he might actually find out what. _Later._

“Are we flying back to the Playground?"

“Yes, ETA five hours."

“Did Romanoff say what happened at the base?"

“A few guards, but she didn’t see anyone who looked like they were in charge. Can you describe the people who interrogated you?"

Brock shrugged. “As I said, didn’t see ’em. But one had a really strong German accent, and the other one sounded like he was from Texas. The German called him Smith."

“Huh. That’s – not very helpful."

“Yeah, I know. Not like Hydra to keep their prisoners blindfolded, though...", Brock mused. Something was tickling his brain, he just didn’t know what. “Did Romanoff cause the explosion, or was it one of the self-destructing bases again?"

“No, that was Nat. She said the guards had some heavy guns that could’ve been a real danger to the Quinjet, so she planted a handful of explosives. But I found this little beauty in the room they held you in, so maybe we’ll know more once we’re debriefing at S.H.I.E.L.D." Barton held up a little voice recorder.

The Quinjet shook slightly as it hit some small turbulence, and Brock almost lost his footing. Barton looked at him sharply. “Hey, no offense, but – you don’t look so fresh. Might be a good idea to lie down until we arrive."

Brock felt like he should object, but Hawkeye wasn’t wrong. Just like the Cradle hadn’t been able to mend his ribs, it also couldn’t help with dehydration and fatigue. He was just about ready to drop. Reluctantly, Brock nodded, and pulled down one of the foldable cots that had been integrated into the Quinjet’s design. He was immediately out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm... sorry? But I did warn you! And Jemma will take care of him in the next chapters, I promise.
> 
> And now to something completely different: Would you like to see explicit sex scenes in later chapters? Because right now, I'm only hinting at things, but I can write it out a bit more if you want :-).


	13. Meeting the in-laws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got slightly out of hand... I had the chapter ready, but then I read your comments (thanks, by the way <3) and realized that most of the nursing that people were looking forward to happened off-screen. So of course I had to go and write those scenes, which took me another week. On the plus side, you get an extra-long chapter!
> 
> As for the hints that some of you found about things not being as they might seem – I'm afraid you'll have to wait a little longer until that puzzle gets solved. In the meantime, have some fluff to make up for the whump from last chapter :-).

When Coulson called Jemma at six in the morning, she immediately knew that something must have happened to Brock.

“Agent Romanoff called. She said they lost contact with Rumlow and asked me for access to his tracking data. But we can’t detect the signal. Fitz is working on it."

Jemma stared at her phone uncomprehendingly. “Sir? What does that mean?"

“We think Hydra has hidden him in a screened place. Probably not in the base the team was raiding, Barton and Romanoff searched it from top to bottom. So maybe they transported him in a lead-lined vehicle somewhere else." Then his voice got gentler. “Don’t worry. If they had killed him, they wouldn’t go to the trouble of blocking the tracking signal, so I’m sure he’s still alive. We’ll get him back."

But Fitz wasn’t able to find anything. The Avengers got Stark involved. He couldn’t find anything, either, but put his AI on the task. Jemma was unable to help them, but couldn’t concentrate on anything else, either. She spent the day worrying and driving Fitz crazy. Since it was Friday, Skye joined them in the evening. Neither of them felt like watching a movie. Even though Brock was sure that Skye didn’t like him (and Jemma secretly shared his opinion), Skye offered to check if she could find anything about Brock in social media channels, or maybe on one of the suspected Hydra frequencies. No success there, either. Jemma must have fallen asleep around three in the morning, she woke up with a cramping neck a few hours later. Someone had put a blanket over her and left a glass of water on the table. Jemma drank thirstily. Her eyes burned. Had she cried last night? Or was it just exhaustion? She couldn’t remember.

Around noon, when Jemma thought she would die from worry, they finally got the call she’d been so desperately hoping for. “We’ve found him", Barton’s voice explained over the sound of Quinjet engines. “He’s a bit worse for wear, but the Cradle will put him back together. We’ll be with you in approximately six hours."

If she hadn’t already been seated, Jemma would have collapsed from sheer relief. Brock was alive. He was coming back to her. Everything would be fine.

Coulson probably knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep Jemma away from her soulmate, so he didn’t even try to send her out of the hangar when he found her there in the evening. Fitz had accompanied her, offering silent support. They didn’t have to wait long until the alert lights started flashing and the roof opened. A Quinjet descended through the opening. Jemma held her breath as the ramp lowered, but nobody came out. She and Fitz exchanged a worried glance. Just as Jemma debated going on board to check on the passengers, two figures emerged.

“Brock!"

He looked absolutely exhausted. For him to show weakness this openly, he must be in a really bad state. Agent Barton was walking directly behind Brock, almost as if he wanted to be there to catch him if he stumbled. But Brock managed to make his way over to Coulson, Jemma and Fitz by himself. Once he’d reached them, Jemma flung herself at Brock and enveloped him in a hug. He stiffened but briefly hugged her back before rasping: “Careful with the ribs."

Jemma immediately loosened her hold. “Brock. I was so afraid..."

“I know. I’m sorry", he whispered in her hair.

He was sorry? For being kidnapped? Before Jemma could comment, Coulson said: “Good to have you back, Rumlow. Barton, Romanoff, thanks for getting him out. Rumlow, you good for debrief or do you need to go to Medical first?"

“I’ll live", Brock answered wryly.

Jemma would have preferred to drag Brock to her room and lock the door for the next week, to make sure that he could rest and that no harm would come to him. But she’d been an agent long enough to know about the sanctity of debrief. Silently daring Coulson to object, Jemma stayed at Brock’s side on their way to the Director’s office. She noticed that Fitz was following them, too. Coulson didn’t say anything. Once inside, the two soulmates sat next to each other, and Jemma discreetly grabbed Brock’s hand. He threw her a short glance and smiled tiredly, which she took as a sign that he valued her support.

“Alright. What happened?"

Agents Barton and Romanoff took turns explaining about the base they had raided in Luxemburg, with a secret basement that was full of Hydra agents and that was suddenly bathed in darkness as Hydra cut the lights. They recounted how they split up and later lost contact with Brock, how they searched the base for him and finally decided Hydra must have taken him. Then they explained Stark’s results, and how it had helped them find the small Hydra hidey-hole (Barton’s words) in the nearby Vosges Mountains, where Brock was hidden in a lead-lined room. Up to this point, it sounded like many other debriefs Jemma had attended during her career. Things got scarier when Coulson asked Brock to tell his side of the story.

Brock’s voice was rougher than usual. “I fought someone in the dark. They must’ve had night vision gear and knocked me out from behind. When I woke up, I was strapped to a table and wearing nothing but my pants. I don’t know what happened to the rest of my clothes, so I guess the camera’s gone. Sorry, Agent Fitz."

Jemma’s friend waved the apology away. “No problem. I’ll make you an even better one."

Brock continued: “They’d put a bag over my head, I never saw my captors. There were two of them, both male and maybe my age. One spoke with a strong German accent, the other sounded as if he was from Texas and the German called him Smith. Don’t think I’d ever met them before, but they knew who I was." Brock shrugged. “Although that doesn’t have to mean much, I’m sure Hydra had a good look at the data dump, too, and my face was in a lot of old STRIKE reports. Anyway, they’d seen my soulmark and asked about my soulmate, wondered if she was S.H.I.E.L.D. When I didn’t answer, they started asking what I’d told S.H.I.E.L.D. about Hydra and why I’d betrayed Hydra. I still didn’t say anything. The questioning took a few hours, then they left me to get some food, and that’s when Barton and Romanoff found me."

Coulson looked at Brock contemplatively. “They just asked nicely?"

Jemma felt Brock tense under her hand. “No. They tortured me."

“And you still didn’t tell them anything?"

“No."

“Hm. Got any proof?"

“No."

“But I do", Agent Barton interrupted. “I found this on the table next to him."

The archer held up a small voice recorder. If anything, Brock grew more tense. Coulson noticed. He nodded to Barton, who pressed play.

“Friday, sixteens of December 2016. Interrogation of Brock Rumlow, carried out by Agents Smis and Klein. Se subject vas caught at our base in Luxemburg and brought here because he is suspected of being equipped vis a tracker. It is... eleven sirty in se morning and se subject has been unconscious for more san six hours now." The voice turned mocking. “How hard did you hit him, Agent Smis?"

“Wasn’t all that hard", a second voice answered. Jemma wasn’t very good at placing American accents, but one of the southern states seemed right.

“Sen maybe he is just playing dead, yes? Vy don’t you vake him up."

There was a sound of flesh hitting flesh, accompanied by a pained grunt. Jemma flinched. Poor Brock.

“Ah, Mister Rumlow. So nice of you to join us. It has been a vile since you visited Hydra, yes?"

There was a moment of silence.

“Hm. I see sat you are not feeling very chatty. Vell sen, let me ask you some questions. Is it true sat you have a soulmate in S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

Again, Brock stayed silent.

“Ve have seen se mark, so ve know she exists. But don’t vorry, ve do not seek to harm her. Ve just vant to understand vy you have betrayed us."

Jemma thought she might be sick as she had to listen to the sounds of several more punches. Then she noticed that Brock was stroking the back of her hand soothingly. _He_ was comforting _her_? Somehow, that didn’t seem right.

Finally, the German started speaking again. “Mister Smis, please, don’t kill him yet. Ve vant answers first."

“If you want answers, I’ll get you answers", Smith promised menacingly. “Wait a second."

Jemma jumped as Brock suddenly spoke up next to her. “That’s when they injected me with something. Felt like an interrogation drug. Made my body relax and made it harder to remember I wasn’t supposed to say anything." From the small device, the German’s voice returned. “Now, Mister Rumlow, I ask you again: Vy did you betray us?"

Silence. “Hm, maybe ve should start vis somesing easier. Vat did you tell S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

It went on like that for a few minutes. Jemma couldn’t help but be proud of her soulmate. Those horrible Hydra agents were no match for him. Finally, the German growled frustratedly: “Mister Smis, sis is not working. Ve need somesing stronger."

The other man laughed. “No problem, doc. Stand back."

Brock stirred uncomfortably in his chair. “Stop the recording, please."

“Why? Did you just remember that you talked after all?" The Director looked at him with raised eyebrows.

Some clanking sounds came over the speakers. More urgently, Brock said: “Coulson, please, stop it."

“Why?"

“Because listening to someone drowning is almost as traumatic as seeing it", Brock whispered hoarsely.

Coulson pressed the stop button. “Waterboarding?"

Brock nodded mutely. “We can listen to it if you want to make sure I didn’t talk, but then please without Agents Fitz and Simmons."

He didn’t look at Jemma as he said that. Jemma swallowed hard. What did they do to him, that he thought just listening to it would traumatize her?

“I checked the recording on the plane", Romanoff suddenly offered. “If you want, I can give you a summary now, and your analysts can confirm it later."

With a glance in the direction of Jemma and Fitz, Coulson nodded.

The redhead clinically explained: “They performed waterboarding on him for more than an hour until he lost consciousness. In all that time, Rumlow didn’t say a single word. According to Klein, the questioning resumed at 6 p.m. He stated that they used adrenaline to wake Rumlow."

Besides Jemma, Brock nodded minutely. “Sounds about right", he confirmed quietly.

“Klein and Smith wanted to speed things up, so they threatened to cut off one of Rumlow’s fingers if he didn’t talk."

Jemma’s heart missed a beat. They threatened _what_?

“He still refused to answer, so they cut off the index finger of his right hand. It sounded as if they did it deliberately slowly."

Jemma fought not to be sick. She looked at Brock. He was deathly white and staring at the floor with clenched teeth.

“When he still refused to answer, they discussed cutting off more fingers. But because that would have necessitated a blood transfusion if they didn’t want him to bleed out, they decided to have dinner first and continue the interrogation later. That’s the end of the recording."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Jemma had to press a hand to her mouth to keep from vomiting. They cut off his finger and then went to have dinner? There were not enough expletives in her repertoire to describe what she thought about that.

“Barton found me before they came back", Brock explained hoarsely. “The Cradle grew back the finger but couldn’t do anything about the broken ribs."

“I see", the Director said quietly. “Barton, Romanoff, what did you find out about the base?"

“We split up to find Rumlow. In the part that I searched, there were a few empty cells, but I didn’t actually see anyone. Because Rumlow looked pretty banged up when I found him, I decided to bring him to the Quinjet straight away instead of searching the rooms for information", Agent Barton reported.

Agent Romanoff looked slightly annoyed as she explained: “I also didn’t see that many guards, but those that _were_ there had some quite heavy firepower. I didn’t manage to kill a single one, except for the two right at the first gate. I assume that the other guards were protecting the scientists’ retreat, when I tried to engage them they moved further and further into the base. We’ll probably find a second exit there once we go back to check the base out. But I couldn’t be sure about their intentions, they might have been planning to shoot down the Quinjet once they’d gotten out, and what Barton told me over the comms sounded as if he and Rumlow wouldn’t be able to fight off any strong opposition. So I decided to cut the Hydra agents off from us by blowing up a few hallways."

Coulson nodded. “Okay. Would you be willing to go back with a S.H.I.E.L.D. team to have another look at that base? We have to find out if Hydra just got lucky or if they were specifically aiming to catch Rumlow."

“Sure."

“Good. In that case, you’re all dismissed. Rumlow – you did well today. One could almost think you were an actual agent."

Jemma bristled. Why did Couldon have to add that barb to the praise? Brock had really suffered today, _for S.H.I.E.L.D._, the least he deserved was some respect. Her soulmate didn’t seem surprised, though.

The Director continued: “Let Medical treat your ribs and check if there are any traces of the drug left in your blood. You can take tomorrow off, I’ll get back to you on Monday. Understood?"

“Yes, Sir."

Jemma noticed that Brock stumbled slightly as he got up. He probably wouldn’t appreciate it if she offered her help in front of everyone else, though. Instead, she gave Fitz a quick “See you later!" and then wordlessly followed Brock to Medical. Her anger with Coulson abated somewhat when she realized that the Director had called ahead, meaning that they could skip the queue. A nurse took some blood and luckily didn’t comment when Brock flinched as the needle pierced his skin. Then the middle-aged man asked Brock to remove his top for an X-ray of his ribs. Jemma almost offered her help again but held her tongue at the last moment. She had enough memories of Ward refusing any help when he was injured, somehow she had a feeling that Brock would react similarly. At least in public.

A few minutes later, an elderly woman came into the room. Brock visibly startled. “Doctor Miller?"

“Rumlow. I hear you’re not a Commander anymore", the woman said archly.

“But I’m still alive. Despite your best efforts."

Jemma tensed, wondering if this doctor was actually Hydra and had somehow been missed by King T’Chaka’s commission, until the woman laughed drily. “You always did accuse me of doing more harm than good. As did your team, didn’t they?"

“Yeah", Brock said wistfully. His eyes were far, far away. “Didn’t matter in the end. They’re all dead."

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that", the doctor said regretfully. “Were they Hydra, too?"

Brock nodded. Quietly, he said: “I guess they deserved it. And I would’ve, too, except..." He waved in Jemma’s direction.

That was when Doctor Miller finally noticed Jemma’s presence. Her eyes fastened on Jemma with unabashed interest, but her voice was polite as she exclaimed: “Oh, dear me, sorry. You must be Agent Simmons, then."

“Yes. Pleased to meet you", Jemma said as she shook the offered hand. “I don’t come to Medical very frequently."

“Which is good", Doctor Miller said emphatically. “Especially because lab accidents are usually more difficult for us to treat than the things that happen to field agents. Which brings me to my reason for being here." She looked down at the tablet in her hand. “Commander, your– no, sorry, I mean Agent Rumlow– no, that’s not right, either. Um. _Mister_ Rumlow, your third rib is broken, the fourth and fifth are fractured. We couldn’t find any traces of foreign substances in your blood, but your iron count is very low. You also seem quite dehydrated, if I may say so."

“No surprise there", Brock muttered under his breath. Jemma nodded silently, it was about what she’d expected. But she was glad to hear that the interrogation drug was completely gone from her soulmate’s body.

“I would recommend that you stay overnight for observation nonetheless", Doctor Miller suggested.

“No thank you", Brock declined. He added jokingly: “I think my soulmate’s qualified to look after me."

Jemma might have tried to convince Brock to heed the doctor’s advice if she hadn’t seen how much he’d tensed at the suggestion. She thought about what he’d told her, how Hydra’s doctors had experimented on him after Insight. Brock probably had pretty bad memories of medical environments.

Doctor Miller had either seen Brock’s reaction, too, or she was used to this kind of refusal, because she didn’t press the issue. Instead, she nodded and explained: “In that case, I’ll give you iron supplements and isotonic drinks to help replenish the lost blood. Here are some pain killers, _take them_, you need to get some sleep to heal. And finally, something that your soulmate can help with." The doctor pulled a silver tube from her coat pocket. “This has come in pretty recently from RnD, but so far it hasn’t disappointed. It has mild local anaesthetic properties, but it mainly seems to stimulate bone reconstruction. The cream should be applied twice daily to the areas around the damaged ribs and massaged in gently."

“I can do that", Jemma assured the doctor. She looked at Brock. Outwardly, he seemed a little tired, but Jemma knew him pretty well by now. He was barely holding on. Deciding to cut the proceedings short, Jemma asked: “Is that all?"

“Yes. But if his state deteriorates, report to us immediately," the doctor emphasized. “You’re qualified as a field medic, I trust you to judge his state accurately."

“Of course." Jemma got up and accepted the cream from Doctor Miller. The fact that Brock didn’t even complain about the two women talking over his head worried her a lot. When Brock made to follow Doctor Miller out of the room, Jemma held him back.

“Huh?", Brock asked eloquently.

She bit her lip. “I know this is not a dire emergency like the last times. But frankly, you look like hell, Brock. Can I...?" She wiggled her fingers.

Brock stared at her uncomprehendingly. “What?"

“You really are tired, hm?", Jemma asked gently. She took his hand in hers. “I could energize you. It would certainly make it easier to get you back to your room."

“Oh." Brock blinked down at their joined hands. Then he nodded. “You’re right. It’s a good idea."

“Good." Jemma closed her eyes and concentrated. It still felt strange to do this, but in a good way. Her whole arm was tingling as the energy flowed from her to Brock. This time, she stopped before she started feeling dizzy. As she opened her eyes, they took in a rare sight: a relaxed, blissful expression on Brock’s face.

“Wow. Thank you. That was–" He shook his head, speechless. Then he grimaced again, putting a hand on his ribs. “Guess it helps more against fatigue than against broken bones, though. Let’s go back, huh?"

Jemma took point as they left the room, collecting the medication at the reception desk and setting off at a slightly lower speed than usual. Brock’s face was a blank mask as they walked through the hallways. Jemma assumed that he was still in a lot of pain, but because it was only early evening, there were lots of agents around. Brock was probably concerned about his reputation. _Field agents!_

Trying to distract Brock a little from his pain, Jemma asked: “So, you know Doctor Miller?"

“Yeah", he answered with a small grin. “She used to work at the Triskelion. Somehow she ended up treating my team after most of our missions. There was always someone who gut hurt. I–" Brock stopped talking when someone passed them in the hallway. Only when the other agent was gone did Brock continue: “I never checked, obviously, but I’d been afraid that she died during Insight. She’s the type who would’ve tried to evacuate the wounded, y’know? I’m glad to see she made it out."

“And I’m glad Coulson stationed her _here_, at least if it means you’ll be more easily convinced to go to Medical now."

Brock’s answering chuckle got them through the last corridor, then they had finally reached his room. Once the door had closed behind them, Brock leaned against it with his eyes closed and sighed as deeply as his ribs allowed. “Fuck. What a day."

As Brock opened his eyes again and their gazes met, Jemma felt her own brave facade crumble. “Brock?", she asked tentatively.

He mutely opened his arms. As she rushed to hug him, the suppressed tears started falling. “We couldn’t find you, Brock! We were looking everywhere, I swear, but there was nothing. I was so afraid they’d killed you. Oh God..."

Brock was hugging her tightly, ribs be damned. “I kept thinking that you’d die, too, if they killed me. And all because I was _stupid_ enough to let myself be caught by Hydra."

“Not stupid", Jemma objected. “Never stupid. You’re one of the most competent agents I know." She sniffled. “Come on. You look like you’re asleep on your feet, and I’m not much better. Let’s go to bed."

“You’re right. But shower first." Brock reluctantly let go of her and disappeared in his bathroom. Jemma stole a pair of his shorts and a t-shirt and quickly got changed. She was just about to curl up in Brock’s bed when she heard a frustrated snarl from the bathroom.

“Brock? Everything okay?"

A moment of silence, then a disgruntled: “No."

When Jemma opened the bathroom door, she found her soulmate sitting on the closed toilet seat. He was topless and staring balefully at his boots.

“I can’t bend enough to take them off", Brock admitted grudgingly.

Jemma swallowed as she saw the red bruises on Brock’s upper body in the harsh fluorescent light. She could already tell that they would turn spectacularly blue in a day or two. And he was absolutely filthy, from the dirt streaks the (apparently quite unclean) water had left on Brock’s chest, back, face and hair, over the blood that still stained parts of his right arm, to his muddy feet. Well, what did you have a soulmate for if not to take care of you in a situation like this?

“No wonder, with fractured ribs", Jemma said as she quickly crouched down and helped him take off the heavy boots. The socks came next. “Your feet are freezing", Jemma exclaimed with dismay.

“Not just my feet", Brock said with a rueful smile. “I was running around barefoot and half-naked in the rain. I had spare clothes on the ’jet, but..."

“But you still haven’t warmed up properly", Jemma finished for him. “Then a hot shower is just the right thing."

Brock managed to take off his pants himself. As he got into the shower, Jemma offered: “Would you like me to help you? At least with your back and your feet?"

Brock was visibly struggling with his pride. When he didn’t immediately answer, Jemma added: “Soulmates, remember? And I’m sure you’d do the same for me."

Brock smiled crookedly. “That’s no fair. How can I say no to that?"

“That’s what happens when you get yourself a smart soulmate", Jemma teased back.

Brock nodded. “Alright. But then come all the way into the shower with me, so at least you get some warmth out of it, too."

“Deal."

Jemma quickly undressed and joined Brock in the – luckily not too tiny – shower cubicle. Brock turned on the water and stepped under the hot spray with a relieved sigh. Thankfully, S.H.I.E.L.D. had excellent plumbing and a limitless amount of hot water for its agents. _Good grief, he’s hot_, Jemma thought as Brock braced his hands on the tiles and closed his eyes, letting the hot water soak his hair. It was running in small rivulets over his body, following the lines of his clearly defined muscles. Jemma unconsciously licked her lips.

Then Brock opened his eyes and caught her ogling him. With a knowing smirk, he said: “This could be quite erotic, right? If breathing didn’t hurt so much." Jemma nodded, blushing. Brock’s grin widened. “Then let’s repeat it sometime, yeah?"

“I’d be quite amenable to that", Jemma replied with as much dignity as she could muster.

Brock chuckled, then grimaced as the movement jostled his ribs.

Jemma turned serious again. “Let’s get you clean so I can apply that cream and get you into bed, alright?"

“Sounds like a plan", Brock ground out through clenched teeth. He held still as Jemma grabbed a bottle of shampoo and washed his hair, only bending down the slightest bit to give her better access. Then Jemma found the soap and started lathering his body. Brock hissed with pain as she moved her careful fingers over his ribs and inhaled sharply for quite a different reason when she reached other parts of his body.

“Fuckin’ hell, _Jemma_."

“Next time", she promised quietly, taking the shower head off its mounting and starting to wash away the foam. Then she grabbed a towel to quickly dry herself before helping Brock out of the shower and drying him, too. By the time Jemma was done, the energy that she’d given Brock seemed to be all but used up. The half-aroused expression on Brock’s face had been replaced by fatigue and he was swaying slightly.

“I’m getting too old for this", Brock murmured as Jemma helped him into his briefs and pajama pants. “Used to be able to ignore the pain and just take care of things myself."

“But you don’t have to." Jemma gently tugged Brock towards his bed. He slowly lay down on his stomach, muffling a groan with his pillow. Jemma unscrewed the tube and carefully applied the cream to the bruised areas on his back. Brock slowly relaxed under her hands. When she was done, she gently tapped his shoulder to get him to turn around.

As Brock had settled on his back, he looked up at Jemma from half-lidded eyes. “I thought about it. And you know what? I actually _didn’t_ take care of things myself. Least not when it was _really_ bad."

“No?"

“No. Jack always found some lame excuse to come to my room and then bullied me into letting him help me." There was a definite note of sadness underneath Brock’s exhaustion.

“I’m glad you had a friend like him", Jemma said. But she couldn’t look Brock in the eyes as she said it. She _was_ glad that he hadn’t been alone, but... Jemma had heard Brock’s confession, she knew the things Jack Rollins had done for Hydra. And while working on the court dossier, Skye had unearthed enough pictures of the big, brutal-looking man to leave Jemma feeling quite unsettled. _He almost shot Captain Rogers in the middle of the road! I don’t think I would’ve wanted to meet him, even if he was still alive._

“Hm." Luckily, Brock’s eyes had already closed again. “Stay with me tonight?"

“Are you sure? I don’t want to jostle your ribs."

“We’ll manage." Brock lifted his blanket invitingly. “Come on. You must be tired, too."

Now that he mentioned it... After the worry of the last two days, Jemma was completely drained. So she stopped protesting and slipped unerneath the blankets. Within minutes, they were both asleep.

Suddenly, Jemma found herself running through a dank, dark corridor. There was an open door looming ominously right in front of her. Somehow, Jemma knew that she would find something horrible on the other side. Despite that certainty, she ran faster and burst through the doorway. _No!_

The room was empty except for an old-fashioned operating table. And Brock was lying on top of it, his limbs still held down by restraints, his unseeing eyes turned accusingly in Jemma’s direction. His right hand was missing all five fingers, a large pool of blood telling Jemma how he’d died. “Brock!" _I’m too late. It’s my fault he’s dead. I–_

“Come on, Jemma, don’t fret it", Skye suddenly said from beside Jemma. She clapped her shoulder. “It’s not like you needed him anymore, what with the artificial hormones you developed."

“What? No, I–", Jemma started, only to be interrupted by Coulson, who had appeared on Jemma’s other side.

“He was a Hydra traitor, Simmons. He wasn’t worthy of you. Once a traitor, always a traitor. And he tried to kill _Captain America_", Coulson added indignantly.

Jemma shook her head in denial. “No! No, that’s not right, he’s not–"

“Jemma."

Jemma stepped forward, extending a hand towards her dead soulmate. He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t.

_“Jemma!"_

With a gasp, Jemma woke up. Her face was tear-stained. She was looking straight into Brock’s concerned eyes, his hand was gently carding through her hair. Dimly, Jemma realized that he must have been calling her name to wake her up.

“Hey. It was just a dream", Brock reassured her quietly.

Jemma wanted to answer, but the only thing that came out was a sob.

“It’s okay. We’re both fine. I’m here, Jemma, I’m here." Brock kept murmuring soothing nonsense until Jemma finally got herself under control again.

“You were dead", Jemma finally sniffled. “You were dead and everyone acted like it was _okay_."

Brock gently leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you, Jemma. For caring about me. You know it’s normal to have bad dreams after something like this, right?"

“Of course", Jemma muttered hoarsely. “But it felt so _real_." Then her eyes widened in dismay. “Oh no! I woke you up! You’re meant to _heal_ and I woke you with my unprofessional fears and now you’re not getting better and–"

Brock shut her up with a gentle kiss on her lips. After a moment or two, Jemma closed her eyes and allowed the feeling to ground her. When Brock finally pulled back, he reassured her: “Don’t worry about it. I couldn’t sleep anyway." At Jemma’s doubtful expression, he admitted: “Forgot to take the painkillers before we went to bed."

“Oh." Jemma wiped the back of her hand over her eyes, then she pulled herself together and got up to fetch the medication and some water. After Brock had gratefully accepted her silent offering, Jemma went to the bathroom to clean up a little. When she returned, Brock was already half asleep. Jemma stopped in the middle of the room, undecided.

“Don’t you dare go to your room now. You don’t have to deal with these nightmares alone. Soulmates, remember?", Brock’s hoarse voice floated out of the darkness. “Come back to bed."

Jemma took a deep breath, fighting off another wave of unhelpful tears. “You’re right. Soulmates." She carefully lay down next to Brock and fell asleep faster than she would’ve thought.

In the morning, Brock stayed in bed uncharacteristically late. When Jemma woke up, she found him staring at her with troubled eyes.

“Maybe I should go to prison", Brock said quietly.

Jemma looked at him, aghast. “What? Why?"

“My parole hinges on my agreement to go on missions, either with the Avengers or later for S.H.I.E.L.D. But I can’t stand the thought that you could die because I’m killed in action."

“Brock..." Jemma didn’t know what to say. “I don’t want you to die, either. Not because of the soulbond, but because I can’t imagine a world without you anymore. So if you’re afraid for your life, sure, I’ll support you whatever path you choose. But I think you’d go mad with boredom if you went to prison. As for harming me..." She huffed with frustration. “I’m not allowed to tell you anything, which just drives me _crazy_, but – let’s just say there might be a solution on the horizon."

Brock looked at her sharply. Jemma could see the wheels turning in his head until he finally asked: “Are you studying soulbond biology?"

Jemma didn’t say anything.

Brock blinked. “Okay. That’s – unexpected. But I guess I should have seen it coming, with your background and all. Good. If it makes your life safer – then good."

Until the doctors gave their okay, Brock wasn’t allowed to go to the gym or the shooting range, and Jemma was too shaken to concentrate on work. So instead, they spent the day together. They had a long, indulging breakfast in the mess (on Sundays, the food was nicer than usual, maybe to compensate agents for not having the day off). Since their choice of leisure activities was rather limited, Jemma coaxed Brock into a Doctor Who marathon that lasted them all afternoon. After all, watching the Christmas Special was an old Simmons tradition, and it would be a shame if Brock didn’t understand what was going on. Just after dinner in the mess, Jemma’s phone rang. It was Fitz, who said he had some exciting news.

“Go and talk to him", Brock said with a small smile. “I know you feel obliged to look after me, but you really don’t have to."

“Haven’t we had this conversation just yesterday?", Jemma asked a little irritatedly. “I know you can take care of yourself, but you shouldn’t _have_ to."

Brock’s face softened. “Jemma. Thank you for putting me first." He licked his lips, a rare display of insecurity. “But remember that Fitz almost lost his best friend yesterday. If Barton and Romanoff hadn’t found me, he would’ve had to watch you die. I’m sure he’s a bit shaken, too."

Jemma gasped. “Good gosh. I didn’t think about it that way. You’re probably right, I should go."

Brock briefly squeezed her hand in affirmation, then he carefully got up and stacked their trays on top of each other. “I got this. I’ll go to bed early, let those ribs heal, so – see you tomorrow?"

“Yes. The plane leaves at 7.30 pm, don’t forget!"

“Don’t worry. I won’t chicken out", Brock teased.

Mindful of all the other agents watching them, Jemma resisted the urge to kiss her soulmate. Instead, she gave him another smile and a wave, then she made her way to her lab. As she entered the room, Fitz was practically vibrating with excitement.

“We managed to decrypt a whole bunch of files from the Bulgarian base. Turns out, they’ve been working on the mind-control drugs for a long time, but mostly without success. Until they used two homeless teenagers that were bonded soulmates as test subjects. When one of them passed energy to the other after an especially horrible test session", the expression on Fitz’s face made Jemma glad she hadn’t been the one who’d had to read through the file, “the stuff suddenly worked. It took Hydra another year and a huge number of failed attempts to separate the person being energized from the person being mind-controlled."

Fitz handed Jemma a tablet. The procedure described in the file was horrible. The doctors needed a pair of bonded soulmates, one of whom they called the “vessel", the other the “energy source". First, the vessel’s stomach was pumped out, then the drug was injected into the stomach via an orogastric tube. The energy source was then forced to energize their soulmate, which was followed by an extraction of the drug through the same orogastric tube. Since the mind-control drug had to be tailored to the target’s DNA, Hydra needed a new batch for every person they wanted to control. However, despite the quick removal of the drug from the vessel’s stomach, some small amounts of the substance still got into their intestines. This meant that people used as a vessel often started getting sick after about a dozen repetitions. The notes in the file said that the preferred mode of application for mind-control targets was via mucous membranes. _Which makes sense_, Jemma thought. _If Brock and Agent Romanoff breathed in the vaporized drug in that lab, it would have come into contact with the mucous membranes in both their noses and their mouths._ In that case, the drug only had an effect on the DNA-specific target. Following ingestion, on the other hand, subjects could suffer various consequences including death, depending on the amount of internalized drug. Most of the vessels died around the twentieth repetition of the energizing procedure.

Jemma looked at her friend. “Fitz, that’s atrocious!"

“I know", the engineer said darkly. “I keep wondering why Hydra doesn’t just try to characterize the energy itself, and then recreate it artificially."

Jemma frowned. “Hasn’t anyone ever studied that?"

“Up to now, it wasn’t possible. Whenever a measuring device is connected to bonded soulmates, the process doesn’t seem to work. Nobody knows why. But I’m sure with today’s improved instrumentation, it should be possible."

“Maybe we should keep that in mind for when I’m finished with the biology side. Imagine if you could recreate the effect for people without a soulmark – that would be a medical revolution! Just think about the effect it had on Brock when he was almost dying from my poison."

“You’re right", Fitz replied with wide eyes. Then he smirked. “And I bet I’d even have volunteers for my tests."

“Oh, certainly. After all, you gave me your blood for my tests."

Fitz sighed. “Unfortunately, there are still quite a few files left. So I guess I’d better get back to work..."

  
* ∼ *

On Monday morning, Brock was called to the Director’s office. Coulson had told him that he’d “get back to him" that day, but Brock had kind of expected another unsigned note. He hoped that Coulson hadn’t changed his mind about letting Brock go to England. Jemma was so excited about Brock meeting her parents, it would break her heart if he couldn’t go.

“Come in."

Brock strode into the room and stood at attention in front of Coulson’s desk. Well, as straight as his hurting ribs allowed. The Director stared at him intently.

“Let’s be frank, Rumlow. Right now, you have the same security clearance as the junior agents – but you and I both know you’re not like them. You used to be Level 8, one of Fury’s most trusted men, and then you went and tried to kill us all. If I’m honest, I’ll admit there’s no danger that you’re gonna, say, sell our secrets to the New York Times. With you, it’s either going to be the ultimate betrayal of everything we stand for, or loyalty unto death. Everything you did prior to 2014 points to the first option, but your actions since you arrived here point to the second one. What you did last week, especially, points to the second one. So I will give you the benefit of the doubt. From this moment, you’re a Level 4 Agent. I will officially revoke your information ban, you’re back in the normal security clearance level system now. In particular, this means you’re allowed to know the location of our base, and that you can leave the premises without an escort. Although, due to your special situation, you’ll have to ask permission on a case-to-case basis until further notice."

Brock felt his heart beat faster. He hadn’t expected to be promoted this quickly. “Thank you, Sir", he said, for once completely without irony. “I know it won’t help you sleep any easier, but – I swear I’m on your side this time."

Coulson studied him thoughtfully. “My side, I’m not so sure. Agent Simmons’ side, though, that I can almost believe. Welcome to the Playground, Agent Rumlow."

When Brock left the office, there was a small satisfied grin on his face. _Finally_, he would be able to visit Jemma in her lab (and her room), and that stupid curfew was lifted, too. He wouldn’t be given personal electronic devices yet, but he’d at least be allowed to use the public ones. And S.H.I.E.L.D. had unfrozen his old salary account, so if he ever felt like wearing something other than black or buying something nice for Jemma, he’d be able to do so without clandestinely accessing his other, secret accounts. It felt almost like being a normal person again.

Brock’s first trip was to Facility Management, where he had a strange and time-consuming encounter with a man called Koenig. But he came out of the department with a lot more access rights linked to his card than before, and he’d even managed to convince them to give Jemma permission to unlock the door to his own room.

After lunch, Brock did what he _should_ have been doing this morning if that whole debacle in Luxemburg hadn’t happened: He went to Docs and Props to pick up the things they’d gotten him for his trip to England. He felt a little strange accepting the canvas pants, soft wool sweaters and modestly coloured polo shirts from a slightly nervous-looking young agent. It felt like going undercover, way back when he’d still been a specialist, long before joining STRIKE. At least they’d included some thermal running gear, presumably because Jemma had told her parents that Brock was a field agent. If they knew anything about members of the police or the armed forces, they would expect him to try and keep up his training regiment. _Always good to have an excuse to leave the house. Who knows what kind of situations I’ll find myself in... Although with the broken rib, it’d probably have to be Nordic Walking rather than running._ He sighed, then winced. Fucking rib.

Once his things were packed, Brock checked the time. A quarter past two. He hesitated. “Ah, fuck it. Come on, Rumlow, stop lying to yourself – you’re a spy, you’re too nosy to wait." So he left the suitcase behind and made his way to one of the few computer rooms of the base. They weren’t frequented as much as they used to be, with every agent owning at least a laptop and a cell phone nowadays. But sometimes people didn’t want to leave traces of what they’d been doing on their personal hardware, or they needed the processing power of a real desktop PC, so a few workstations still existed. With his new access rights, Brock could open the door, and his old S.H.I.E.L.D. credentials allowed him to log into one of the computers. A message informed him that he had been promoted to Level 4 and would be able to access information accordingly. He sighed inaudibly. Being cut off from all information for four months had really made him nervous. Brock knew he didn’t have much time before he had to go and meet Jemma, so he only scanned the most important news. Nothing surprising in global politics, but S.H.I.E.L.D.’s internal mission overviews (at least the ones he could access) were interesting. There were a _lot_ of raids on Hydra bases. Brock had a feeling some of them were based on intel he had given S.H.I.E.L.D. _Well, serves Hydra right. If they hadn’t treated me the way they did, I wouldn’t be here today._ And he wouldn’t have met Jemma, but Brock decided to ignore that part.

For reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, Brock’s fingers itched to open a Tor browser and type in the addresses of several boards he and his old STRIKE team used to use as digital dead drops. Maybe someone had left him a message. Maybe someone was still alive. _Don’t be stupid. You didn’t check a single time in the two years when you did solo work, when it would have actually_ mattered _if they’d wanted to team up with you again. Why would you want to look for them now?_

Brock resolutely closed all open windows and logged out. It was just before six now, enough time to grab a bite to eat, fetch his suitcase and pay Jemma a little surprise visit. He couldn’t wait to see her face when he suddenly appeared in her lab. (Hopefully, it would be a happy face. He was quite sure it would be. Really.)

Brock knew which corridor led to the labs, but once he’d gotten inside, he was a little lost. An elderly woman with a no-nonsense blue business suit and grey hair tied back into a bun at the nape of her neck spotted him reading every door sign he passed.

“Can I help you?", she asked strictly, her voice suggesting that she’d like to help him find the exit. Someone really didn’t like to have their science space invaded by lowly field agents.

Brock tried not to feel offended. Hadn’t he just told Rogers a month ago that people usually kept to their own divisions? “I’m looking for Agent Simmons’ laboratoy, Ma’am."

The woman’s gaze became even sharper. “Agent Rumlow, I presume?"

“Yes, Ma’am."

She came a few steps closer, drew herself up to her full height of 5”3 and met his eyes determinedly. “Let me tell you something, young man. If you so much as _breathe_ on her wrong, they will never find your body. Understood?"

Brock blinked. Was this slip of a woman threatening him? Well, Jemma had told him how much she hated being underestimated by field agents. And he still remembered vividly what it felt like to be poisoned by one of her inventions. Who knew what this woman was capable of? And besides – even if it manifested in a way that was uncomfortable for _him_, it was good to see that Jemma had people who were looking out for her.

“Yes, Ma’am", he replied seriously.

The woman kept scrutinizing his face a moment longer, then she nodded curtly. “Good. Last door on the right."

With that, she spun on her heel and disappeared in one of the labs. Brock blinked again. Had this really just happened? Then he shook his head as if to clear it and made his way to the door the woman had indicated. It was a glass door, and through it Brock could see Jemma and Fitz busily cleaning up their lab benches. He smiled. God, Rollins would never let him hear the end of it if he knew how sappy Brock had become–

Don’t. Think. About. The. Team.

Brock determinedly kept the smile fixed on his face and entered through the automatic door. When neither of the two scientists stopped in their work (or their bickering), he cleared his throat. Jemma’s face split into a delighted grin.

“Brock! How did you get in here?"

He held up his card. “Coulson promoted me to Level 4 today. No more curfew, no more information ban."

“That’s great! I’m so happy for you!" She bounced over to him and hugged him tightly.

“After what you went through, that’s the least you deserve", Fitz declared, much to Brock’s surprise.

“And it means you can finally tell me about your work. And I can visit you here."

Jemma’s eyes shone excitedly. “There’s so _much_ I want to tell you! You see, I –"

Brock held up a hand to stop her. “I’d love to hear it all, but maybe you should tell me on the plane. I think we have to go now."

“Oh, shit!", Fitz swore after a glance at the clock and disappeared through the lab door.

Jemma shook her head bemusedly. “You’d think he’s never gone on leave before. I take it you brought your things?", she asked with a glance at the suitcase at Brock’s feet. He nodded and Jemma smiled. “Yes, me too. Shall we go to the hangar?"

“Let me get changed, first. Is there a bathroom I can use?"

“Um, sure. But why do you want to get changed? Your clothes look perfectly clean to me..."

Brock grinned. “I didn’t plan to meet your parents in tac gear."

Jemma blushed a little. “Oh. Yes, that’s – very considerate, actually."

She showed him the way to a bathroom, and a few minutes later Brock came back out wearing dark blue canvas pants, black leather shoes and a light grey woolen sweater. He felt a bit weird but Jemma’s appreciative glance more than made up for it. Together, they went to the hangar, where a small passenger plane was waiting. As they boarded the plane, Jemma politely greeted the five other agents already inside. Brock was surprised to spot Hunter sitting in the last row.

“Hunter. Good to see you. How’s the knee?"

“Holding up. How about you? I heard you had an unpleasant encounter last week."

Brock grimaced. “I’ll live. Wasn’t the first time." He wasn’t going to say more, not with Jemma listening in.

Hunter made a noncommittal sound. “You certainly look alright. What’s with the posh clothes?"

“They’ll make him fit right in", Fitz said from the door. “Although your father tends more towards tweed, doesn’t he?"

“He does", Jemma admitted. “But my parents aren’t that bad, are they?"

Fitz smiled indulgently. “No. For rich people, they are quite open-minded. They’ve never called me a chav, even though my Mum works in a supermarket and my Dad’s a lorry driver."

_Rich people?_, Brock thought with growing alarm. _I thought her father’s a gardener!_ But he seemed to be the only person on the plane who focused on this part of Fitz’s statements.

“Really, Fitz? You’re the son of a trucker?", one of the other agents asked.

“What?", the engineer bristled. “We can’t all be Tony Stark."

Jemma only rolled her eyes at the ensuing discussion and motioned Brock to choose a seat. The plane was more comfortable than the military transports or even the Quinjets Brock was used to, but it didn’t have the entertainment system of a civilian airline. So Brock had brought a book. Next to him, Jemma diligently closed her seatbelt, studied the leaflet detailing the emergency procedures and then took out her tablet to get some work done. Brock alternated between looking out the window and reading his book. The hold of a Quinjet didn’t have any windows and his last missions with the Avengers had all been accompanied by heavy clouds, so it had been a while since he’d seen this much of the night sky. He’d missed looking at the stars.

When Brock turned around to point out the evening star to Jemma, he realized that she’d fallen asleep, tablet still in hand. Smiling, he plucked the device from her fingers and put it back in her bag. Then he settled down to get some sleep himself. Tomorrow would be a long day.

Breakfast was a selection of sandwiches and fruits courtesy of the Playground’s mess. As they were eating, Jemma suddenly turned towards her soulmate and said: “Oh! Brock, there’s something I meant to tell you."

“Hm?"

“Agents Barton and Romanoff lead a team to the base they rescued you from."

Something cold coiled in Brock’s stomach. “They find anything interesting?"

“Unfortunately, no. It looked like Hydra used the time to clear out everything useful, like computers and file cabinets. There were no people left at the base except for two bodies right by the entrance. They could confirm Romanoff’s suspicion about a second exit, though."

Brock sighed. “So we still don’t know who had me, and why."

Jemma shook her head regretfully. Brock couldn’t help the feeling that he was missing something, but he just couldn’t figure out what.

After landing, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had to pass border control like everyone else. It felt very strange to use a passport with his real name in it. Afterwards, Brock, Jemma and Hunter said goodbye to Fitz, who was taking a connecting flight up to Edinburgh. The trio was going to leave the airport by car, Hunter having offered to drop Jemma and Brock at her parents’ place. As they got out of the building, they were greeted by a loud and obnoxious whistle. A man whose looks screamed special forces was waving at them. Brock tensed instinctively.

Hunter walked towards the guy with a huge grin on his face. “Hodgeson, you old tosser! Good to see you, mate. Thanks for watching the car."

“Always a pleasure", the other man grinned back and tossed Hunter a set of keys.

It was only now that Brock paid any attention to the car the guy had been leaning against. It was a Rolls-Royce, dark green with a cream hood and spotlessly clean. Brock’s eyebrows rose.

“Yours?"

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?", Hunter said as he placed a hand on the roof almost affectionately. “A 1992 Corniche IV convertible."

Brock shook his head bemusedly. “Didn’t peg you as the classic sports car type."

“Much easier to handle than women, but just as much fun. Erm, no offense, Simmons."

Jemma just rolled her eyes with a long-suffering sigh. Then they all piled their luggage in the trunk and set off. The drive from Gatwick Airport to Sheffield should have taken about three and a half hours, but they lost almost an hour in a traffic jam on the M25. “Welcome to London", was Hunter’s only sarcastic comment. Once they could drive faster, Brock had to admit that it really was a very nice car. Jemma told Hunter to leave the M1 a few miles south of Sheffield and directed them to a small village.

“Turn onto that drive to your right."

The gravel road lead through a small copse of trees before curving towards a house. A very, very big house. Only years of controlling his reactions prevented Brock’s mouth from falling open. He still had to clear his throat before he could speak.

“Jemma?"

“Yes?"

“Please tell me your parents are part of a hippie community sharing this place?"

Hunter snickered, while Jemma looked at Brock with confusion in her eyes. “What? No, since my sister’s moved to London it’s just Mum and Dad living here."

Brock swallowed hard and let his eyes take in the place. He’d never been a big architecture buff, but as Jemma explained to him much later, the property blended a traditional, symmetrical Georgian house of light brown stone construction with extensive late Victorian additions of mellow red brick and with upper gables displaying Tudor revival timber framing. The Victorian additions included a small tower and an orangery topped with a balcony. There were also a number of red brick outbuildings, including garages at the end of the drive. In short, the place was a mansion.

“Didn’t you say that your Dad was a gardener?", Brock croaked.

Jemma looked at him, her eyes still full of innocent confusion. “He is."

“Then how...?" Brock made a hand gesture that included the huge house and the extensive grounds surrounding it.

Finally, Jemma seemed to understand what was wrong. “Oh. That. This place has been in the family for more than two centuries, my parents didn’t pay for it. Maintenance is expensive enough."

_More than two centuries._ Brock couldn’t trace his mother’s family back three generations, let alone several centuries. Hell, he didn’t even know who his _father_ was. He suddenly felt very inadequate.

“Much as I like to see a former STRIKE Commander squirm, I gotta be on my way", Hunter interrupted their exchange. He’d stopped the car in front of the house but left the motor running.

Brock gathered his composure enough to flip the other man the bird while Jemma thanked him for the ride. They both got out of the car, grabbed their luggage from the trunk and sent Hunter off with wishes of a merry Christmas and a good new year. Then they turned towards the door. Brock wondered why nobody had come outside yet. Then again, with a house this big, chances were her parents simply hadn’t noticed the car. Well, they certainly noticed when Jemma rang the doorbell. A few moments later, the door opened and a man in his early sixties got enveloped in an enthusiastic hug.

“Dad! I’m so glad to see you."

“Jemma, love. Welcome home." He gently extricated himself from his daughter and offered Brock his hand. “And you must be Brock Rumlow."

“A pleasure to meet you, Sir."

“None of that. Call me David."

“Oh, are we being progressive?", an amused female voice said from inside the house.

Jemma’s father turned his head to speak over his shoulder. “This man is kissing my daughter. Of course I’m not gonna make him call me _Sir_."

“Well in that case, you must call me Sarah", a smiling woman declared as she stepped outside.

“Brock", Brock said as he shook her hand.

It was easy to see that the couple were Jemma’s parents. Even without having met them before, Brock was sure he’d have picked them in a lineup. They had the same slender build as Jemma, the same strawberry blonde hair, even though it was streaked with silver in her mother. And they had the same friendly nature – perky in Sarah’s case, calm in David’s. Although, as a trained spy, Brock could tell that they were a little nervous. He couldn’t blame them, after all, it wasn’t every day that you got to meet your daughter’s soulmate.

“Why don’t you pop up to your room to get the luggage out of the way, and I’ll prepare some refreshments in the drawing room?", Sarah suggested.

Brock tried not to let his intimidation show, and he was reasonably sure he succeeded. He’d managed to fool Nicholas Fury, after all, so a couple of civilians really shouldn’t be a problem. Brock followed Jemma wordlessly through the reception hall, which cut straight through the Victorian part of the house, with doors leading first to the orangerie and then the dining room on the right and to a room with a TV (the sitting room, as Jemma later told him) and a small bathroom on his left. A single step down and they were in the central hallway of the Georgian building, which mainly consisted of said hallway, the drawing room to their right and a door leading to another Victorian addition to their left. The latter contained the kitchen, as Jemma informed him before waving him up the staircase to the first floor. She and her sister had their bedrooms in the Georgian part of the house overlooking the drive, while the master bedroom with access to the balcony was in the newer part of the house. Brock silently took in the antique furniture, thick curtains and even thicker rugs. He was so far out of his league, it wasn’t even funny.

_Fuck, why didn’t anyone warn me?_ To be fair, Fitz had kind of tried on the plane. Brock just hadn’t taken him seriously. At least now he knew why Docs and Props had packed him so many fancy pants and sweaters.

Jemma’s room itself was a bit less intimidating. There was a bed, a wardrobe that seemed to be at least a hundred years old, an equally old desk and rows and rows of bookshelves. Instead of the band posters he’d been expecting, there were two framed black-and-white posters of women. On a small plaque at the bottom of the left frame, it said “Marie Skłodowska Curie, Nobel Prize in Physics 1903, Nobel Prize in Chemistry 1911", while the right frame was labeled with “Dorothy Crowfoot Hodgkin, Nobel Prize in Chemistry 1964". Brock put his suitcase down on the floor with a suppressed groan. Lifting heavy luggage was a stupid idea when you had bruised ribs, but admitting he was hurt would’ve meant reminding Jemma’s parents how dangerous his job was. He didn’t want to alarm them if he could help it. And luckily the cream he’d been using the last three days seemed to work, the pain in his ribs was already lessening, so hopefully he’d be able to hide his injury while he was there. Brock cleared his throat.

“You’ve always been fond of science, huh?"

Jemma self-consciously looked over her books and the posters. “Yes? Pretty much since I knew what the word meant."

Before Brock could answer, Jemma’s glance had fallen on something else and she groaned. “Really? That hideous thing?"

Brock followed her eyes to a checkered fluffy dressing gown in shades of brown and orange that lay folded on the bed. He raised his eyebrows quizzically.

“It belonged to my grandfather", Jemma explained with a slight blush. “That thing is at least forty years old. But I guess they didn’t have any other spare robes, and it does get rather cold in here at night. The windows are single-glazed and, well, it _is_ a pretty old house. That’s why we have all those heavy curtains. Oh look, there’s also a pair of slippers. Huh. I think they were granddad’s, too."

Brock smiled at Jemma’s doubtful face. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not like I have to win a fashion prize."

At that, Jemma grinned. “Actually – did I tell you that my sister’s a fashion designer?" Jemma laughed openly at Brock’s theatrical groan. He decided that, although he liked her laugh very much, it would only be fair to shut her up with a kiss.

A few minutes later, the two made their way downstairs. The drawing room made up most of the Georgian part of the house. Its two symmetric bay windows overlooked the garden, they probably turned it into a very bright place with a nice view during summer time. Now, however, it was already full dark outside even though it was only 4.30 pm. To compensate, large fires roared in the two fire places on the two short sides of the rectangular room. The remaining long wall was completely taken up by heavy bookcases filled to the brim with books that certainly dated back to before either of the World Wars. Four slightly worn armchairs were arranged around a low couch table, with two side tables nestled in between. In one of the chairs, Jemma’s father sat reading a newspaper. He folded the paper and placed it on one of the side tables, then gestured towards the other chairs.

“Please, have a seat."

They’d only just sat down when Sarah bustled in with a tray and four glasses. “I made us a G and T to celebrate the occasion, I hope that’s okay?"

“That sounds lovely, Mum." Jemma accepted her glass with a happy smile.

“Thank you", Brock said politely.

As they sipped their drinks, the four talked about the journey and the weather. It was always said that Brits were the kings of small talk, and Brock found that he agreed. But it served its purpose, by the time the glasses were empty everyone had relaxed a little.

Sarah looked at the clock, then addressed her husband. “What do you think, shall we start making dinner?"

“Sounds good", he agreed. Then he added in Brock’s and Jemma’s direction, “We thought, what with everyone complaining about English food, we’d go with Italian today. Everyone likes pasta."

“That’s very considerate", Brock started, not sure how serious the man was. “But you really don’t have to go to any trouble because of me. I eat everything, as long as it’s no longer moving."

David laughed. “I’ll take that as a challenge. But let’s stick to pasta tonight, that’s fast to make. We’ll call you when the food’s ready."

With that, the couple disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Jemma looked at Brock a little tensely. “And? What do you think?"

“Your parents seem very nice. Which doesn’t surprise me, with a daughter like you."

“Charmer", Jemma chided laughingly. “Shall I give you a tour of the house while we wait for dinner?"

“Sure."

Having Jemma explain about the history of her home, how various relatives had added bits and pieces over the centuries, left Brock feeling even more lost than before. What was he thinking, trying to have a serious relationship with someone like her? Yes, they were soulmates, yes, there was definitely a strong physical attraction, and yes, he thought she was brilliant and funny and just fucking wonderful – but when it came down to it, they had nothing in common save their employer. _What am I even doing here? Who am I trying to fool, her parents or myself?_

Brock forced himself to take a deep, calming breath and to smile at whatever Jemma was saying. It wouldn’t do to freak out now. He’d been taken off guard by this, that was all. Tomorrow, he might be able to see things from a different perspective. Until then, he had to keep up the appearance that everything was perfectly fine. He’d been one of Hydra’s best, he could do this.

It didn’t take that long to cook pasta, which meant that dinner was ready by the time Brock and Jemma came down from their excursion to the little Victorian tower. David had set the table in the dining room, which to Brock looked very fancy with its golden-white floral wallpaper, a row of floor-to-ceiling windows with matching curtains, yet another fireplace, a Persian rug and an antique mahogany table. Years of infiltrating rich people’s parties allowed Brock to keep his face neutral as he sat down and to actually relax against the doubtlessly very expensive chair. It helped that Jemma’s parents didn’t seem to insist on proper table manners, on the contrary, they joked and laughed with their daughter and made an effort to include Brock, too. The food was good, and since the last thing they’d eaten had been breakfast on the plane, Jemma and Brock both dug in hungrily.

After the worst hunger had been sated, Sarah smiled at Brock over the rim of her wine glass and said: “I’m sure you can imagine how surprised we were when Jemma told us she’d met her soulmate. After all, it’s pretty rare, and I think the last reported case in either of our families dates back at least four generations."

Brock hummed noncommittally before taking a sip of his own drink. He was pretty sure that this was the prelude to the questioning that he’d been dreading.

“Jemma was horribly tight-lipped about it. All she would tell us was that you two met at work."

_Here it comes._ “We did. On a mission, actually, where Jemma had to provide first aid to me", Brock explained with a fake smile that still managed to fool everyone at the table.

David lifted his eyebrows. “Wow. That sounds a bit more exciting than our first meeting, doesn’t it, love?"

“Oh, shut up", Sarah scolded her husband with mock severity before leaning in Brock’s direction and stage-whispering: “We also met at work, but it was a garden party and he told me off for stepping on the lawn."

Jemma buried her face in her hands with a groan. “Do you have to bring that up? I’m sure Brock isn’t interested in your escapades."

The laughter that pealed around the room was infectious. To his own surprise, Brock found himself wishing that his own home life would have been anything like this. When they had all calmed down a little, Sarah said: “Well, if I’m not allowed to talk about us, maybe Brock can tell us something about himself? I’m so terribly curious." That last was whispered again, mischief sparkling in her eyes.

Brock felt alarm bells ringing in his head. He shrugged as nonchalantly as possible. “There really isn’t that much to tell. I grew up in Nebraska, that was – not very exciting. Joined the army, got recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D., worked for them ever since."

“Hm. So no jealous ex-girlfriends that might give Jemma a hard time?"

Brock’s assessment so far was that Sarah seemed rather bold for an English aristocrat. Judging by Jemma’s groan, the wine had made her mother even more straightforward. But since it was his mission objective to get the two senior Simmons to like him, Brock would play along. As long as Sarah only asked about girlfriends rather than terrorist former employers, he wouldn’t even have to lie.

Brock smiled ruefully. “No time for a serious relationship, unfortunately. But I will have to make time now."

“S.H.I.E.L.D. takes care of its people", Jemma butted in. “Our Director made sure that we’re stationed at the same base."

“Makes sense", Sarah mused. “It would be a bit cumbersome to travel across half the world every few weeks to satisfy the bond, otherwise. Once you’ve completed it, I mean."

_Oh._ With all his careful planning, Brock had completely forgotten to ask Jemma whether or not she’d told her parents that their bond was already active. Well, this answered that question. He waited to see if Jemma would correct her mother, but she only nodded amiably.

“Okay, so – once we’ve proven to Jemma that we’re not going to embarrass her by digging out amusing childhood anecdotes, when can we expect to meet your family?"

The smile froze on Brock’s face. He really should have seen this one coming. “There is no family, I’m afraid. I’m an only child and my mother raised me alone. She passed away fifteen years ago."

“I’m terribly sorry", Sarah said, aghast. She seemed much more sober now. “That must have been hard for you."

Brock lowered his gaze to the table. Most people felt uncomfortable discussing death, and even more so when they had to look a bereaved relative in the eyes while doing so. It wasn’t his intention to make Jemma’s parents feel uncomfortable. “It was a shock, yes. But we were never that close."

“Oh."

There was an uncomfortable silence. But trust the British to salvage even the most awkward conversation. David cleared his throat and declared: “Well, then we will just have to make you feel doubly welcome in our family. It is good to finally have Jemma bring home a boyfriend."

“Dad!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually browsed through some real estate sites looking for properties around Sheffield. Jemma's house exists just as I described it, I downloaded pictures and the floor plan and everything (and some of the descriptions were taken verbatim from the marketing of the property). I know, nerd ;-).


	14. Sheffield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all - it feels really strange to post a Christmas chapter when it's almost June. So maybe you should play some Christmas songs while reading this, to get into the right mood ;-).
> 
> And secondly, I want to mention that this was _meant_ to be a pure fluff chapter, but then the plot somehow crept up on me while I wasn't looking... But I promise it isn't too awful this time. It's Christmas, after all :-).
> 
> Oh, and I also have a thirdly: There's one more Christmas chapter coming, in case this wasn't enough fluff for you...

It was late when Jemma and Brock finally made their way to her room. But they were still mostly on American time, so Jemma wasn’t all that tired. As soon as Brock had closed the door behind them, she pounced and started kissing him. He kissed her back enthusiastically.

When her neck started cramping, Jemma pulled back and addressed Brock mock-seriously: “As your medical professional, I have to ask: How are your ribs? Are you up to a little exercise?"

“Exercise, hm? Sounds good...", Brock grinned. When Jemma kept looking at him expectantly, he rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. “Really, Jemma, I’m fine. The cream’s working, feels like I’m healing three or four times faster than usual. As long as we’re a little careful, I can deal."

“I can do careful", Jemma said and leaned forward to kiss Brock again. She felt him smile against her lips as he let himself be pushed backwards towards the bed. She straddled him, taking care to keep her weight off his chest, and resumed exploring his mouth with her tongue. Oh yes, Brock was definitely enjoying this as much as she was. The thin fabric of his pants didn’t do much to hide exactly how much. Grinning widely, Jemma stopped kissing him long enough to open his belt and start tugging the pants down.

“Are you sure?", Brock rasped quietly, sounding a little out of breath. “I mean, in your parents’ house?"

Jemma grinned. “Don’t worry. Remember that their bedroom is in the Victorian addition, on the other side of the house. They won’t hear a thing." Her grin turned into a slightly disgruntled frown. “My sister’s room, on the other hand, shares that wall over there with mine, and that thing is _flimsy_. She’ll arrive on the twenty-fourth, and I plan to have lots of sex until then."

Brock burst out laughing, then winced in pain. Jemma smiled a little apologetically and kissed him again. She really liked it when he laughed. What she liked even more was to hear him moan in ecstasy, though, so she proceeded to get his clothes off him.

Later, when they were both cuddling under her thick covers, Jemma sighed contentedly. There had been a few conversational landmines at dinner, but they’d managed to navigate them without major casualties. And she was spending too much time with field agents if this was what her metaphors were turning into. Time to sleep.

Jemma woke the next morning to the sound of running water. She blinked, still a little disoriented. Why was her sister using Jemma’s ensuite bathroom? Had she clogged the drain in her own shower with her long hair again? Then Jemma’s eyes fell on the clothes carefully hung over her valet stand (this one inherited from her great-grandfather) and she remembered. Brock. Jemma couldn’t help the slightly dopey smile at thinking that she had brought her _soulmate_ to meet her _parents_, and so far everyone seemed to get along nicely. Then she stretched, padded over to her shoulder bag and retrieved her laptop. She might as well use the time to check if anything urgent had come in from S.H.I.E.L.D.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened and a whiff of male deodorant was carried over to her on a wave of warm, humid air. Jemma inhaled deeply and turned around to greet her soulmate. He had a towel wrapped around his hips and still slightly damp hair. The sight made something hot pool inside her stomach and she unconsciously licked her lips. “Morning, Brock."

“Morning, Jemma." He grinned teasingly. “Is that supposed to tell me that you’re hungry for breakfast, or for – something else?"

Jemma sighed. “Both, actually. But I have big plans for today, so I should probably go and shower, too."

“Your loss", Brock said with a cheeky wink. Then he hesitated. “Hey, um – would you mind if I use your laptop? On Monday, I only had a few hours at the Playground to use my new access rights, and I have four months of news and S.H.I.E.L.D. missions to catch up on."

“Sure, no problem. It’s still unlocked."

When Jemma came back out of the bathroom, Brock had gotten dressed and sat at her desk, the laptop in front of him. He smiled at her before continuing whatever it was he was doing. Once she was dressed, too, they went downstairs to have breakfast. It was the twenty-first of December, Jemma’s parents had told them the night before that their holidays would only start on the twenty-fourth, so they had already left to go to work. Luckily, most of the kitchen utensils were still where Jemma remembered them to be, so she managed to make a pretty good full English breakfast. They were on holiday, after all.

“So, um, you’ve probably guessed that I have this all planned out but – is there anything in particular that you would like to see?"

Brock nodded slowly. “If I’m honest, I’m not just here to meet your parents. I’m also here to learn more about _you_. So show me what you like about your home town. Give me the Jemma Simmons tour."

“Okay", Jemma laughed, “but remember that you asked for it. I want no complaints later!" Despite her easy words, she couldn’t help blushing a little. It was a very intense feeling to know that one of the world’s best spies was focusing all of his attention on little old her. To cover her nerves, Jemma sent Brock up to her room to get both their jackets while she dug around for some hats and scarves. It was cold and windy outside, the sky slate-grey from the dense cloud cover. Once Brock was back, she grabbed a car key from a bowl on a cabinet in the reception hall and led him to the garages. Inside, there was a dirty-red 2-door Vauxhall Astra which was only slightly younger than Jemma herself.

“You see, I don’t get to drive very often when I’m at S.H.I.E.L.D.", Jemma said as she sat down on the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door from the inside. “And even when I do, it’s obviously on the right side of the road. So my Mum won’t let me drive her car." As Brock folded himself into the tiny space, Jemma stage-whispered: “It’s her midlife-crisis car." She closed her seatbelt while Brock fought with the jammed mechanism that didn’t want to allow him to move the seat back. When he had finally managed to buckle in, too, Jemma put the car in gear and took off. “So we have to take Dad’s rusty old car. My cousin calls it a doghouse on wheels. Quite an accurate description, don’t you think?"

Brock snorted. “Yeah. How does your father even fit in here? He’s taller than I am!"

“With his knees folded up to his ears", Jemma grinned. “But don’t worry, it’s not that far."

They left the car in a public parking garage and set out to explore the city on foot. It was windy enough that Brock gladly put on the hat and scarf Jemma handed him even though the red-and-green chequered pattern wasn’t his style at all. It was strange to see Brock wearing her father’s clothes, Jemma mused. It really drove home the fact that she’d – well, brought home her soulmate. Jemma grinned.

“What?", Brock asked suspiciously, lifting a hand to his hat. “Are you laughing at me?"

Jemma kept grinning. “Nope, promise. It’s nothing. I’m just happy."

She held out her hand and felt her heart skip a beat when Brock grabbed it. Strolling through Sheffield while holding hands with her soulmate... How often had she dreamed about that as a little girl? At least as often as she’d been called names by jealous classmates. It had been the right decision to go to boarding school, there was no doubt about it, but she _was_ a little sad that it had meant spending less time in this beautiful town.

Brock dutifully oohed and aahed at the historic buildings Jemma pointed out to him. They had a light lunch in the Sheffield Winter Garden, a large temperate glasshouse in the center of town, before strolling through the neighbouring Millennium Gallery for half an hour. It didn’t take much longer to walk from there to the Botanical Gardens. Brock was surprised they were open in December but understood once he saw the beautiful glass pavilions.

“I spent a lot of time here as a child", Jemma explained. “It’s probably not surprising, given my dad’s occupation, but – I think it’s kind of what brought me to biology, you know? I mean, nowadays biology’s a lot less about finding and naming new plants than it used to be, but still. Look at all that diversity. Look at all the ways nature found to solve hard problems. I’m impressed every single time."

Brock looked at her for a long moment, his face a lot more serious than Jemma thought her statement warranted. Then he smiled suddenly, wrapped her in his arms and kissed her thoroughly. Between kisses, he murmured into her ear: “I wish I had such an optimistic view of the world. Maybe that’s one of the reasons fate brought us together. You lighten up my life."

Kissing her soulmate in the Botanical Gardens – even better than strolling through town. The last time Jemma’d been this happy had been when she received her S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy acceptance letter. This was surreal. Brock Rumlow, former right-hand man of both Nick Fury and Alexander Pierce, an agent of both S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra, a convicted terrorist, was sharing the most peaceful place she knew with her. Her own personal Christmas miracle.

When the gardens closed at four, the couple slowly walked back towards their car. The sun had set quite a while ago, now Christmas decorations were twinkling from every shop and every lamppost. It was awfully romantic. Brock seemed to be affected by the atmosphere, too, he was quiet on their ride back. Jemma’s parents were already home when they arrived, the house welcomed them with glowing windows.

David greeted them with a wide grin. “And? How was your day?"

“It was great Dad, thank you."

“Well then, how about you get ready for dinner? I’m making something traditional."

Jemma was instantly suspicious. As she and Brock went upstairs, she commented: “When you said that you eat anything, I think he took it as a challlenge."

“Don’t worry. I’m sure I can take it", Brock answered confidently.

Sarah joined them in the dining room, shaking her head at her husband’s antics. “He spent most of breakfast going through his mother’s old cookbooks. Silly man."

But Jemma knew her mother secretly had just as much fun as her dad. Judging by Brock’s huff, so did he. Finally, David came into the room carrying a tray with four plates.

“Voila: savoury ducks with mashed potatoes, peas and onion gravy. Enjoy."

_Oh._ This wasn’t something they had very often. Jemma watched Brock take a first bite of the small meatballs. He smiled pleasantly.

“Doesn’t really taste like duck, though", Brock remarked once he'd swallowed.

“That’s because it’s pig", David explained. “In Wales and the Midlands, they call these faggots. No relation to the American pejorative term. It’s minced pig liver and testicles with herbs, onion and breadcrumbs and wrapped in caul fat before frying."

“Tasty", Brock said with a perfectly straight face. And it _was_ tasty, once you stopped thinking about what it was you were eating.

Conversation flowed easily, Jemma’s parents asking about their trip and what Brock had liked most. Once the dishes had been cleared away, Sarah fetched a colourful tin box from the kitchen. “Now that Brock valiantly endured David’s regional cooking, let me treat you all to a regional dessert. And I assure you that I had nothing to do with its making – I’m unfortunately not very good at baking", she added in Brock’s direction, “I bought it at the bakery."

“Did you get some parkin?", Jemma asked hopefully. When her mother opened the tin with a nod, Jemma explained: “This is a gingerbread cake that we always have in November and December. Don’t worry, nothing more suspicious than oats and treacle in there."

Brock dutifully tried the dessert. His polite expression transformed into pleasant surprise. “Hm, it tastes really nice."

“There you have it, David", Sarah laughed. “I told you, it’s a universal law – nobody’s capable of disliking baked Christmas treats."

The next day started just as pleasant as the previous one. But this time, Jemma jumped out of bed and tugged away Brock’s towel when he emerged from the bathroom. He caught her before she could run away with it, put his hands on her hips and kissed her with a pleased sigh. They had all the time in the world. Jemma’s parents had left for work a while ago, there was no one in the house but them. Jemma grinned against Brock’s lips.

“Hey, I know you already had a shower, but – how do you feel about trying out the big bathtub?"

Jetleg had let them sleep well into the morning, so by the time the two were dressed it was already lunchtime. Jemma ushered Brock into her Dad’s car and drove them to a car park close to Kelham Island. The man-made island had once been the beating heart of Sheffield’s industry, with the remains of the numerous cutlery and steel works, factories and workshops giving the area a distinct charm. Nowadays, industrial activity had moved on, and this part of the city had transformed significantly. It was home to everything from indie shopping arcades to microbreweries and galleries and, indeed, a good place to find some lunch. Afterwards, they visited the Kelham Island Museum, where Jemma told Brock more about Sheffield’s industrial history. She could tell that he related more to this topic than the gardens she’d shown him the day before. Ah well, if all people were the same, the world would be a boring place.

Sarah insisted on choosing dinner that evening, and she made a very nice curry. Afterwards, they all piled into the sitting room and turned on the TV. Jemma and Brock were tired from walking all day, and her parents wanted to relax after a busy day at work. Apparently, everybody wanted to finish their to-do lists before Christmas, which meant a sharp increase in the number of inquiries the two had to answer. Jemma leaned against her soulmate sleepily, only listening with half an ear to what was happening on the TV. There was a comedy show on, with two people using a voice modulator for funny sketches. Out of nowhere, Jemma felt Brock stiffen.

“Brock? Everything alright?"

“Hm? Yeah, I’m fine."

But even though he put his arm around her and seemed outwardly relaxed, Jemma couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. So when they went up to her room later, Jemma asked: “Brock, are you sure that everything is okay?"

“It’s nothing serious, really. I just couldn’t say anything in front of your parents", Brock assured her with a lopsided smile. “I suddenly realized that I don’t have any presents for your parents or your sister. So I thought, tomorrow’s the twenty-third, maybe we could go shopping somewhere?"

“Oh. Um, sure. Let me just think..." Jemma could have slapped herself. Of course Brock didn’t have presents, when should he have bought them? Back when his bank accounts had been frozen, he wasn’t allowed to leave the Playground except on missions and he didn’t have any access to the internet? Or in the five or so hours between Coulson granting him (conditional) freedom and their plane leaving for England?

“Okay, so, my parents love antiques and quirky stuff. We can find that in the Antiques Quarter, that’s a nice place to see anyway. And we can have lunch there. Afterwards, we’d better go to a mall to find something for my sister. She’s a bit more..." Jemma waved her hand through the air searchingly. Finally, she settled on: “Modern."

“Sounds good", Brock smiled. “Hey, um, I read a few mission reports yesterday that I think I can add some comments to. Would you mind if I work a few minutes before I join you in bed?"

“No, sure, let me unlock my laptop for you."

Brock was true to his word and finished shortly after Jemma had gone through her evening ritual. He diligently made up for the lost time. As Jemma drifted off to sleep, she thought dreamily: _This feels almost too good to be true. I hope it’s not the calm before the storm._

  
* ∼ *

They had cut off all ten fingers. Brock stared at the bloody stumps, frozen with horror. Over a comms unit in his ear, he heard Hawkeye’s voice: “Sorry, Rumlow, the Cradle doesn’t work for traitors." Then there was nothing but static.

Suddenly, a noise behind him. Brock whirled around. _Oh God._ His old team was walking towards him. Or rather, shuffling. They were in various stages of decay, rotten flesh hanging off their bones. Their arms were stretching out towards him. “Commander... you abandoned us... Commander... Braaaaiiiins..."

Brock didn’t know what to do. _I’m so sorry, Jack._ They had almost reached him. Brock didn’t want to be eaten. He realized there was a shotgun lying at his feet, but he _didn’t have any fingers_–

Brock was too well trained to scream in his sleep. Instead, he woke with a quiet gasp. His heart was pounding. Just a dream. It was just a dream. Brock lay there for a few minutes, but his mind refused to quiet down. There was still too much adrenaline in his blood. With a resigned sigh, Brock rolled out of bed. The old, obnoxiously loudly ticking alarm clock on the night stand told him it was four in the morning. Luckily, Jemma hadn’t been woken by his movements. Brock stealthily put on the horrible checkered dressing gown and the matching worn-out slippers, then snuck out the door. The house was quiet, the air cool, as Jemma had predicted. After wandering a little aimlessly, Brock found himself in the conservatory. Even at night, the view over the garden was stunning. But even more stunning was the cloudless night sky. There were no street lights outside, the lights in all houses were off, and above him the moon and the stars were creating a dramatic sight.

Brock sighed. He didn’t like lying to his soulmate, but tonight’s revelation wasn’t something he wanted to trouble her with. Even though Ward’s betrayal meant that Jemma should know better, she was still so naive in some ways. If what Brock suspected was true and he told her, it would ruin her image of the Avengers. He didn’t want to do that. Plus, he still might be wrong. _Let’s see if they answer my e-mail. Maybe they have the guts to own up to what they did._

Brock tensed as he heard noises from the hallway but didn’t turn arond.

“The stars are beautiful, aren’t they?", Sarah said from the doorway.

Brock nodded, his eyes still fixed on the sky. “They are."

“Would you like a glass of water?"

Brock finally turned around and saw her holding out a glass to him, a second full glass in her other hand. “Thank you."

Sarah joined him at the window. “When you reach my age, you suddenly get a lot more opportunities to see the night sky", she mused jokingly.

Brock chuckled obligingly. “Well, you certainly have a nicer view than most people who wander through their house at night."

“I guess we do."

They were both silent for a while. “You look like you’re miles away", Sarah observed. “A penny for your thoughts."

Brock wasn’t going to tell her about his nightmare. _Diversion._ “It’s stupid", Brock said self-deprecatingly. “Just – if you’d asked me half a year ago what I’d do for Christmas, I would’ve never thought that I’d spend it in England with my soulmate."

“Life has a tendency to surprise us, doesn’t it? I didn’t see this coming either." She smiled again. “What did you do last Christmas?"

Brock forced an answering smile. “I was in Cambodia", _hiding from the authorities, including S.H.I.E.L.D._, “on a mission. The year before, in Brazil", _doing the same, still reeling from having broken out of the Hydra medical center three months before._ “I’m afraid work rarely stops for us field agents. That’s why I spent most of my last twenty Christmases with my team." Brock sighed. “I’ve been thinking about them, actually. Wondering" – _if they’re dead_ – “what they’re doing this year."

“Then why don’t you call them? Christmas is about love and family and people that are important to us. Sounds like your team falls in that category", Sarah suggested.

Brock kept his smile easy and open. “Sounds like a good idea." _Impossible. If they’re even still alive, they probably have orders to shoot me on sight._ Then he yawned. “I think I’m heading back to bed now."

“Before you go, do you need some ice for your injury?"

Brock froze. “Beg your pardon?"

Sarah smiled a little sadly. “You hide it well, but I’ve noticed you move kind of stiffly for someone who looks physically fit. And you sometimes wince when you laugh."

“Alright, you got me", Brock conceded. Internally, he berated himself for not being able to fool a civilian. Damn it, he was getting soft! Okay, damage control. “I have some bruised ribs. But it’s not too bad. Jemma told you that I’m a field agent, right?"

“She did", Sarah sighed. “I will admit that we weren’t very happy about it. It’s bad enough that Jemma works for an intelligence agency, but at least their laboratories seem to be pretty safe. But a soulmate who’s regularly in mortal danger..."

“Not every mission is that dangerous. Most of the times, our targets don’t even know we’re there. We are spies, not soldiers, after all."

Sarah didn’t seem convinced, so Brock licked his lips and pretended to be slightly embarrassed as he added: “Also, since I’ve met Jemma, I – well, I’m a lot more careful now. Asked my boss to give me less dangerous missions. I have a lot more to lose now, you know?"

That seemed to do the trick. The tension drained from Sarah’s shoulders. “Yes, I understand. I’m probably being silly. I know that S.H.I.E.L.D. only hires the best and that you are more than capable of looking out for yourself. But you can’t fault a mother for worrying about her child."

Brock smiled reassuringly. “You’re not the first relative who’s a bit concerned. It’s perfectly normal." Then he yawned again. “I should really go back to sleep now. Thanks for the water."

“You’re welcome", Sarah said. Brock could feel her eyes on his back as he left the room.

The next morning, Jemma was her usual happy self. After breakfast, the two of them braved the trip to town in David’s old car. They spent a pleasant morning in the Antiques Quarter, where Brock found something nice for Jemma’s parents. After lunch, they got back into the car and drove to a shopping center. It was bustling with people who did their last-minute Christmas shopping. Brock couldn’t help but be a little nervous at the sheer number of people crowding them. What if someone recognized him?

Jemma was studying a selection of silk scarves through a shop window when Brock noticed something out of the ordinary. A young woman had stopped a few meters away, staring at Jemma. The woman wore a thick winter jacket that might conceal a number of weapons, and it was impossible to know what was in the plastic bags that she was carrying. Brock tensed, ready to lunge if he had to–

“Jemma Simmons!", the woman suddenly exclaimed with a bright smile.

Jemma whirled around as the woman dropped her bags and rushed towards her. Years and years of training almost made Brock tackle her to the ground, but he forced himself to stay where he was. _Don’t call attention to yourself. Wait for Jemma’s reaction..._

His soulmate smiled. “Akshita – what a lovely surprise!"

As the two women hugged, Brock relaxed. And told his heart that it could stop hammering now, thank you.

“Akshita, this is my soulmate, Brock Rumlow. Brock, this is Akshita Ghosh, we went to boarding school together."

“Nice to meet you", Brock said as he shook the woman’s hand.

They all did a little polite small talk. When it looked like the two women had a lot of catching up to do, Brock suggested that they have a cup of tea while he kept looking for a present for Jemma’s sister.

“Are you sure?", Jemma asked. She seemed torn between wanting to talk to her friend and not wanting to make Brock feel unwelcome.

Brock grinned. “Absolutely. Might be useful to have a little time without my soulmate, you know, in a shopping center just before Christmas."

He winked, and Akshita laughed. “I think he wants to buy you something pretty, Jemma. Come on, be a smart girl and let him go."

Jemma bemusedly shook her head. “If I’d known that you two would team up against me... No, it’s okay. We’ll be at the little place over there, alright?"

Brock wished them a good time and let the current of customers carry him deeper into the shopping mall. He didn’t actually need to buy a present for Jemma. Brock had already ordered something two days ago, the first time he’d used Jemma’s laptop. He’d seen some of her parents’ mail on a table in the hallway and therefore known the exact address, and with his accounts unfrozen, ordering to their house was easy. (Being a spy had to be good for _something_, right?) But he did want to get away from his soulmate for a few moments. Brock could usually rely on his gut feeling, and he was sure that Akshita hadn’t been the only one watching them.

A couple of minutes later, Brock’s feeling was confirmed. He knew the person that he could see approaching in the reflection of the sweets shop window he pretended to be studying, so he kept his posture relaxed.

“I hear she likes toffee", Barton said without preamble.

“She does", Brock confirmed. Then he turned his head towards the archer. “Shall we talk somewhere a little more private?"

It wasn’t hard to sneak on the roof. Despite his outward calm, Brock was tense as he faced Barton.

“I take it you got my e-mail."

“I did. Quite a crazy accusation. What made you write that?"

“Voice distortion", Brock answered carefully. “We humans are so used to trusting our senses, but changing a voice is actually not that hard. It’s much more difficult to fool the eyes. But that’s why you blindfolded me, isn’t it?"

Barton stared at him for a long moment. Then he smiled ruefully. “Fury didn’t do all bad. You may be a traitor, but at least you’re not stupid. Yeah, that’s why we blindfolded you. Nat said it was a risk, we should’ve used a face veil, but we only had one of those."

Something hot and angry coiled in Brock’s stomach. He kept his voice deceptively calm as he replied: “She was right. The blindfold was what first tipped me off that something was wrong. Undercover agents like me or politicians like Pierce, we never showed our faces to a prisoner that had a chance of survival. But at the dedicated Hydra bases? Agents didn’t try to keep their identity secret."

“Well, we managed to fool you long enough", Barton said with a shrug.

“Yeah. About that. What the _fuck_?"

With the last word, Brock surged forward and grabbed the front of Barton’s jacket, almost lifting him off his feet. The other man just cocked his head and asked calmly: “What, are you surprised?"

“You broke my ribs. You cut off my bloody finger! What the hell for?"

“Come on, Rumlow, is it that hard to see? We did it for Coulson."

“What?" Brock was surprised enough to loosen his hold on Barton.

The archer shrugged again. “It’s not a big secret that Nat and I owe everything to Coulson. And he’s sometimes a bit too generous with handing out second chances. We wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna stab him in the back at the first opportunity."

Brock stared at Barton. Then he sighed and released the other man. “Damn it, why do you have to make sense? Couldn’t you just have said it was revenge for me launching Insight?"

“Sorry to disappoint", Barton grinned.

Brock shook his head in mute exasperation. “But why did you have to cut off my finger? That _really hurt_. You could’ve just kept waterboarding me."

“Nah. You have a reputation, Rumlow. They say you’re a tough nut to crack. We looked at your file, saw what was done to you in the past. If we wanted to really test you, it had to be something more drastic."

Brock couldn’t argue with that. He was still angry, though. “And the other Avengers? Did they help you?"

“’Course not. Can you see Cap agree to torture someone? Exactly. And Stark wouldn’t do it, either, not with his past."

Brock stared at the other man. He really shouldn’t be surprised. As STRIKE Team Alpha’s Commander, he’d had access to a lot of STRIKE Team Delta’s mission reports. He _knew_ what Barton and Romanoff were capable of, had always respected their skills and the ruthlessness they displayed on missions, even if he despised them for their naive worldview. Coupled on the one hand with their unconditional loyalty to Coulson and on the other hand with the hate that Brock had seen in Romanoff’s eyes back when he’d arrested her during Insight, them torturing him really didn’t seem that far-fetched.

_Then why am I so disappointed?_, Brock asked himself as Barton met his gaze unflinchingly. _Because I was stupid. When they stopped treating me like an enemy and actually worked_ with _me on missions, I lowered my guard. What a rookie mistake to make. People like Romanoff don’t just forgive and forget. Jemma and her friends maybe, possibly even Rogers with his fucking earnest generosity. But the Black Widow? No way. Well, I won’t make the same mistake twice._

Brock carded a hand through his hair with a weary sigh. Sadly, he wouldn’t gain anything by punching Barton in the face, no matter how much he wanted to. As he’d witnessed often enough in the past few months, STRIKE Team Delta still held too much sway over Coulson’s opinion. So Brock settled on a resigned, only semi-sarcastic: “I hate you, Barton."

“That’s okay. If it helps, Nat and I are now pretty sure you’re not Hydra anymore. If you wanna ask Coulson for missions without us, we’ll support you."

“You are one weird guy, Barton. You and the Widow both." Brock shook his head disbelievingly. “But fine, whatever. I promise that I won’t tell anyone the truth, as long as you help me to get back in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s good graces."

“Agreed", Barton said, and briefly shook Brock’s hand. Then he grinned cheekily. “Here. I wasn’t joking about the toffee. See you next year, Rumlow."

With that, the archer jumped off the edge of the building. Brock looked at the plastic bag Barton had pressed into his hand. Inside, there was a brightly wrapped parcel that upon closer inspection felt and sounded like a tin. Brock shook his head. “Lunatics. All of them, fucking lunatics."

But he’d been right. And while it chafed that the two Avengers had distrusted him enough to torture him, at least he’d convinced them now. Plus, the fact that it had been Barton and Romanoff who’d questioned him meant that Hydra might not actually be that interested in capturing him. That was kind of a relief.

Well, he’d better get back inside now, before Jemma started wondering where he was. At least he had a present to explain his long absence. _Damnit, Barton, stop being so fucking competent. Trying to hate you, here._

  
* ∼ *

Christmas Eve started with an overcast sky. It was cold and windy but, as David cheerfully said, at least it wasn’t raining like last year. Since he and Sarah had the day off, they invited Brock and Jemma for a trip to the manor house they worked in. Brock had to admit that it was beautiful and had wonderful gardens. They had lunch in the little attached cafe, then went to pick up a tree. Brock and Jemma braved the climb up to the attic to get the dusty boxes with glass ornaments, tinsel and electric lights. They were listening to a CD with cheesy Christmas songs and munching on more of the gingerbread as they all decorated the tree together. It was surprisingly nice. Of course, the peace couldn’t last.

Jemma’s sister Catherine was expected to arrive in time for dinner. David already had a fish in the oven and potatoes on the stove and Brock and Jemma were setting the table in the dining room when a car drove up the driveway.

“Mum! Dad! Cathy’s here!", Jemma called in the direction of the kitchen. “Come on, let’s quickly finish this. Cathy’s always hungry after the drive from London, and a hungry Cathy’s a grumpy Cathy."

Brock laughed. “Just like a hungry Jemma’s a grumpy Jemma."

“Oh, you!", Jemma mock-scolded him.

They were just done when a young woman appeared in the doorway. She was just as slender and fair-skinned as Jemma, with the same straight brown hair and golden-brown eyes, but much more extravagant clothing and stronger make-up. “Jemma! So good to see you!"

The sisters hugged and Brock came closer. Jemma straightened with a beaming smile. “Cathy, this is Brock, my soulmate."

It happened in slow motion. Cathy turned towards Brock, her hand automatically extending towards him. Then her smile froze, her eyes widened. Brock had enough time to think _Fuck!_ before Cathy’s hand recoiled, dove into her purse and pulled out a small can of pepper spray.

“Stay back! Don’t move! Shit, what– Jemma, are you– No, Mum, stay outside!"

_She knows._ Brock had frozen at Cathy’s first panicked words. Now he very, very slowly raised his hands in front of him, palms out, and retreated a few steps back, behind the large dining table.

“It’s okay", he tried to calm Jemma’s sister. “Whatever you think you know–"

“He’s Hydra! Quick, Mum, call the police!"

Now Jemma looked panicked, too. “No, Mum, don’t! Brock’s on our side."

Out in the hallway, Sarah and David looked shocked and unsure what to do. Cathy had moved into the doorway, putting more distance not only between herself and Brock but also between herself and her sister. She seemed pained.

“You’re lying. I recognize his face. It was in the files they put on the internet. I’m not just a dumb fashion bimbo, you know. I _care_ about you, Jemma, of course I read everything I could get my hands on when the agency you worked for was declared a terrorist organization! Please tell me you’re not Hydra, too."

Jemma was stricken. “Cathy, no, I’m not Hydra. I’m S.H.I.E.L.D. And so is Brock."

“Nowadays", Brock added. _Honesty is probably the only way to get out of this without Jemma’s family hating her._ “You’re right. I used to be Hydra. But I left them more than two years ago. We haven’t lied to you, Sarah, David, but we haven’t told you the whole truth either."

Jemma looked at Brock with wide eyes. He could see the fear reflected there – fear that this revelation might cost her her family. Not on his watch.

“We did meet on a mission. But the mission was Jemma and her team arresting me. Once we found out we were soulmates, Jemma’s boss allowed her to file a soulmate appeal in court. The judge granted the appeal, and I’m on probation now."

Sarah was holding onto her husband’s arm as if it was a lifeline. She was horrified. David didn’t fare much better. Cathy was still brandishing the pepper spray, her hand shaking with nerves. And Jemma – Jemma seemed torn between wanting to soothe her family and standing up for her soulmate. Brock took another step away from everyone.

“Look, I swear I’m no danger to anyone here. But I understand if you don’t want a former terrorist in your house. If you want, I’ll leave. If Jemma calls S.H.I.E.L.D.’s London base, they can have a Quinjet up here in less than half an hour."

“What? No!", Jemma protested. “This is stupid. You’re one of us now, Brock, you don’t have to leave!"

Brock looked imploringly at Jemma’s family. “I’m sorry, Sarah, David. Cathy. I didn’t mean to spoil your Christmas. And I certainly don’t want you to feel unsafe in your own house. But please don’t blame Jemma for being my soulmate. It’s not her fault."

“I don’t trust you. I will call the police, and if you’re telling the truth, S.H.I.E.L.D. can pick you up at the nick", Cathy said with a hard glint to her eyes.

“Stop it! Everyone, just stop!", Jemma shouted suddenly. Her family looked at her with wary surprise. Jemma took a deep breath, then said much more quietly: “I think we all need to calm down. We should have a seat, and then Brock and I will explain everything. And if you then still think he should go, we can call S.H.I.E.L.D."

Brock noticed that Jemma hadn’t specified if she would stay or leave with him. Maybe she hadn’t chosen yet. Maybe she hoped she wouldn’t have to choose at all.

“I am not sitting at a table with a terrorist!", Cathy objected vehemently.

Out in the hallway, Sarah and David exchanged a serious glance. Carefully, David said: “Talking _to_ each other’s always better than talking _about_ each other. And Jemma trusts him. That’s got to count for something."

“Maybe – maybe you’d feel more secure if he was handcuffed, Cathy?", Sarah suggested haltingly.

“And where do you want to get handcuffs on Christmas Eve?", Jemma’s sister scoffed.

Sarah cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Um. Upstairs?"

“What – _what_?" Cathy and Jemma stared openmouthed at their parents, who blushed. But revelations about their parents’ sex life, however shocking, were less important than the other bombshell that had just dropped.

Cathy took a deep breath, the hand with the pepper spray still extended towards Brock. “Okay. Fine. We can talk – if he’s cuffed to that end of the table, and we’re all at this end, and I keep this", she shook the spray can, “handy just in case."

“Alright", Brock readily agreed and moved to where she’d pointed. Now that the initial shock had passed, Jemma’s parents seemed prepared to give him a fair chance. That was already more than he could’ve hoped for. Her sister would be the harder nut to crack. But he could do this – for Jemma’s sake, he _had_ to succeed.

Sarah had disappeared but David came into the room and took a seat at the other end of the table. Jemma demonstratively sat right in the middle between Brock and her father. When Sarah returned with a pair of handcuffs, Jemma tightened the first cuff on Brock’s left wrist, then passed the other behind the table leg and motioned Brock to lean forward a little so she could close the second one around his right wrist. If Brock now wanted to free himself, he’d have to upend the table – an antique monstrosity that easily seated eight people and weighed at least a couple hundred pounds. Or he could, you know, dislocate his thumb and get out of the cuffs themselves – but hopefully Jemma’s family hadn’t thought of that possibility.

“There. Happy?", Jemma asked her sister.

Cathy grimaced but sank down on a chair next to her father. “I’m about as far from _happy_ as it’s possible to get. But I’ll listen to you now. So. Explain."

Jemma threw Brock an uncertain glance. He forced what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “D’you want me to start?"

“No." Jemma straightened and turned towards her family. “I’ll explain."

And so she did. She told her family about S.H.I.E.L.D.’s efforts to catch high-ranking Hydra officers, about her own failed attempts to develop a reliable sedative and how she instead found a poison that might help to catch the most skilled fugitives. She flinched at her family’s horrified faces but kept talking, explaining that the substance could kill a person after a few days. She told them about tricking Brock into being poisoned, about treating him on the plane, about the failure of the antidote.

David had visibly paled. “So you activated the bond to energize him?"

“Yes", Jemma confirmed quietly. “I wasn’t sure if it was the right decision, but I couldn’t just let my soulmate die."

Sarah glanced from Jemma to Brock. “You never told us the bond’s already complete."

“I wanted you to meet Brock first, have a chance to get to know him, and then tell you that we’ve activated the bond. Plus, you _know_ me, Mum, you would’ve known something was up if I’d told you I’d rushed into a bond."

“Yes, I would’ve", Sarah agreed darkly.

“And then what?", Cathy asked skeptically. “You thought if he’s your soulmate, he must be a good person, and decided on a soulmate appeal? That doesn’t sound like my rational older sister."

“Of course not", Jemma said indignantly. “First, our plane crashed on a deserted tropical island, Brock got seriously injured, we were captured by a native tribe, they wanted to sacrifice me in a ritual, Brock saved my life, and finally the Avengers arrived and rescued us."

“You’re kidding."

“No, Mum, that’s the truth. You can look it up, it’s called Catalina Island, it was all over the news in September. Well, not my name, specifically, but the discovery of the native people and the involvement of the Avengers." Jemma sighed. “Look, this has been quite a crazy year for me, okay? But in the middle of all this mess, I realized that Brock is a good person. He’s just had a really shitty childhood and then met the wrong people in the army. He left Hydra in 2014, after the lauch of the Helicarriers in Washington and the Hydra uprising. When we were stuck on that island, we had a lot of time to talk. And it seemed to me that he was redeemable, that it would be possible to sway him to our side."

“And how would you know if that succeeded?", Sarah asked.

“By his actions. When we were back at our base, Brock made a full confession. He told S.H.I.E.L.D. _everything_. As far as I know, his intel alone has led to the raiding of four Hydra bases and the arrest of dozens of their agents. And Director Coulson is very careful, he’s had Brock locked up until he proved himself and had the Avengers assess him and take him on missions with them."

Sarah threw Brock a thoughtful glance. “Is that where you hurt your ribs?"

“Yes", Brock confirmed. “I know it’s still a long way to go, but I’m trying to repay my debts."

“He could be faking", Cathy challenged Jemma. “Just be waiting for you to let your guard down, and then bam! Everyone’s dead."

“He could be", Jemma acknowledged. “There’s no way to know for sure what someone’s planning. I mean, for all I know you or Mum or Dad could be Hydra. But I don’t think you are, just like I don’t think Brock’s faking. And Director Coulson, Captain Rogers, a judge and Brock’s parole officer all agree with me."

The other three Simmons were quiet for a moment. Finally, it was David who spoke up. “Can we see the court decision?"

“Of course. I mean, technically it’s secret, but I’ve broken security protocol with pretty much everything I’ve told you anyway, so one more thing probably doesn’t matter. I have a copy on my laptop. I can just go and... Okay, no, you probably don’t want me to leave the room right now. Maybe Dad can get my laptop from upstairs."

“Sure. I’ll be right back."

He left behind a tense silence. Brock was carefully optimistic, but he knew the court decision contained some pretty damning evidence. It wasn’t over yet.

“Here", David said as he handed Jemma her laptop.

She quickly booted the device, then turned it so her family could see the screen. “This is a scan of the original document. The transcript of Brock’s confession is part of the official documentation, too, but with all the background information that S.H.I.E.L.D. added to it it’s almost two hundred pages long and more than we can read right now. I think the court decision itself should be enough."

Her mother pulled the laptop closer. “Ninth of September 2016, soulmate appeal of Jemma Anne Simmons on behalf of Brock Rumlow... blah blah... Brock Rumlow, son of Rebecca Rumlow and an unknown father, born in Queensbury, Nebraska, on the eighth of June 1975, currently living on a classified S.H.I.E.L.D. base...", Sarah started reading out loud as she skimmed the document.

Brock started a little as he heard the date. Three and a half months ago. Had it really only been such a short time? It had felt much longer to him. Well, a lot had happened in the meantime – training, being tested by Rogers, dating Jemma (if you could call what they did ‘dating’), a number of easier missions, an attack by the Black Widow, and of course his kidnapping by ‘Hydra’. A lot indeed.

Meanwhile, Sarah continued reading to everyone: “Very thorough confession has been handed to all parties, nothing to redact or correct... Aha, the opening statement. _I hope that this court will decide to give me a second chance. I made many mistakes in my life, some of which led to suffering, injury or even death of innocent people. Now, with a few years distance, I have realized that while my intentions might have been good at the beginning, I was following the wrong cause. It was never going to lead to the type of just, peaceful society I was hoping for, and I should have stopped what I was doing much sooner._

_ Now, I have a very good reason to fundamentally change my behaviour: I have found my soulmate. Jemma Simmons is a compassionate, selfless person who has dedicated her life to helping other people._ Wow. You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you? _She is a valued member of S.H.I.E.L.D., an organization that has recently been restructured and given the official approval of the United Nations. Jemma has offered to vouch for me, and S.H.I.E.L.D. has offered to let me help them in their effort to make the world a safer place. If this court gives me the opportunity, I would like to use my skills to make amends for what I’ve done in the past._"

“Yes, well, that doesn’t prove anything", Cathy interrupted. “Anyone with an ounce of talent can give a speech like that, whether they mean it or not. The interesting question is, what did the prosecution say?"

“Wait a moment... here", Sarah said. “_We all know that a soulmate appeal is meant to spare a law-abiding citizen the discomfort of having to regularly visit their felonious bondmate in prison. It relies on the assumption that a felon might change his behaviour out of love for his soulmate, and that his partner can guarantee his future good behaviour. During this hearing, I will convince the court that the discomfort of Miss Simmons, who has not always been perfectly law-abiding herself_ – what’s that supposed to mean, huh? Pillock."

“Mum", Cathy protested.

“Alright, alright. _That the discomfort of Miss Simmons weighs much less than the threat posed by releasing Mister Rumlow from custody. He is a danger to the populace, he is a murderer and a terrorist. The confirmed number of casualties from his confession alone includes forty-eight deaths, of those ten women and three children. Nothing his soulmate promises can mitigate these deeds._"

Sarah swallowed hard. “Forty-eight deaths?"

“Yes. Most of them were mercenaries or criminals, members of organizations that competed with Hydra and that could’ve just as easily killed me. But some were civilians. And those I deeply, deeply regret."

Everyone was silent, even Cathy. Finally, Sarah cleared her throat. “Maybe – maybe I should read on?"

The others nodded.

“_Question from the prosecution to the defendant: “Mister Rumlow, your confession reads like the worst case scenario of a law textbook. You have broken just about every law of the United States of America, many of them multiple times. It would take too long to discuss all your felonies, so I will restrict myself to the worst, namely murder and terrorism. Do I understand correctly that you attacked a school in Somalia in 2008, causing the death of a ten-year-old?"_

_ Defendant’s answer: “Yes, you do. However, the death of the student was a tragic accident. We were ordered to make it look like the al-Shabaab had attacked the school, which promoted a rather liberal world-view, to further destabilize the region. But we never intended to kill anyone, only to scare people. As the later investigations showed, the boy had a heart condition and suffered a seizure triggered by his fear. I couldn’t sleep for quite a while after that."_ Oh God, Brock..."

“As I said. I wish I could undo those things. But I can’t. I can only try to do better now."

Jemma put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You are, though. Doing better, I mean. You’ve helped shut down that horrible research base in Bulgaria, and the one in Egypt, and in Panama. I can’t even remember all the others. And – well, I meant to tell you tomorrow, as a Christmas gift, but I guess now’s actually the better occasion. Agent Barton – Hawkeye", she explained for the benefit of her family, “CCed me an e-mail he wrote to Director Coulson, saying that he and Agent Romanoff think you’re ready to go on regular S.H.I.E.L.D. missions without the Avengers. They think you’re truly loyal to us now."

_Yeah, because they cut off my finger to see if I would keep S.H.I.E.L.D.’s secrets_, Brock thought darkly. He wasn’t surprised by the news. After all, Barton had told him about his intentions when they met in the mall. But he wasn’t about to tell Jemma about any of this. Instead, he smiled a little. “That’s good. But I’m willing to wait as long as it takes to truly convince Coulson."

“You will have to convince King T’Chaka and his committee, too, at one point, won’t you?", David asked.

“Yes. Although it might be a while before they appraise me. I’m in a rather unusual situation because my permission to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. is based on a court decision, which means I have already been evaluated."

“But I thought the point of having a UN-approved oversight committee was to get away from potentially influenced local authorities", David added.

“It was, and as I said, I’m sure I will meet with him eventually. I just haven’t yet."

Jemma’s father nodded thoughtfully. Cathy cleared her throat. “Well, I for one would like to form my own opinion. Mum, can you read on?"

Sarah obliged. Back in September, the prosecutor had questioned Brock for almost four hours. It took longer than that for the Simmons family to go through the transcript. After an hour, David remembered his fish. Luckily, their oven had a timer and had switched itself off, sparing them a fire alarm on Christmas Eve. Since everyone – especially Cathy – was hungry despite the difficult conversation, they had a short dinner break. Brock even managed to convince them to free one of his hands and just cuff the other one to the table leg. Otherwise, Jemma would have had to feed him, and he wanted to avoid this awkwardness if he could. Also, his back was thanking him for finally being able to sit straight again. Afterwards, however, Cathy insisted on the previous constellation of both hands cuffed around the table leg. Brock suppressed a sigh. Yes, his back muscles were going to be sore tonight. But if that was the price for saving Jemma’s relationship with her family, it was a price he was willing to pay.

It was long after midnight when they reached the section that described Jemma’s questioning. Since the prosecutor had focused on discrediting Jemma and not asked her many things about Brock, they skipped it. Coulson’s testimony was short and precise, it showed that he was appalled by Brock’s work for Hydra but had absolute faith in Jemma. When Sarah quoted Coulson’s declaration that he would support Jemma’s decision no matter what, Brock detected some tears in his soulmate’s eyes.

Finally, Sarah reached the section with the promising title “Verdict". She took a sip of water and read: “_Mister Rumlow’s crimes are numerous, and some of them would ordinarily justify a death sentence. However, he has convincingly declared his wish to make amends, and his soulmate, an upstanding young woman with an impeccable record, has pledged to help keep him on the right path. Therefore, the soulmate appeal is granted. Due to the unusual history and skill set of the defendant, the court has decided on two conditions: The first is that Mister Rumlow’s whereabouts have to be monitored until further notice. The second is that he has to check in with a parole officer once a month._"

“S.H.I.E.L.D. fulfilled the first condition by giving me a tracking implant. It’s active right now, so they know exactly where I went these last few days. And my parole officer actually had to give permission for this trip", Brock explained.

“And what was it Jemma said about the Avengers?", Sarah asked.

“Director Coulson is a cautious man. So he put measures into place that would have minimized Brock’s chances to do damage in case he would have turned out to be lying after all", Jemma explained.

Brock nodded. “I was locked up in a cell until I’d memorized S.H.I.E.L.D.’s new rules. Afterwards, I was still under a curfew, and only allowed to leave my room to go to the gym or the mess. Then Coulson wanted me to prove my loyalty under more realistic conditions, but still keep the risk to everyone else low. So he asked the Avengers to take me on missions with them. They agreed after they’d tested my physical mission readiness." It all sounded so easy when he summarized it like that. But boy, had that testing cost him.

“And I’m supposed to believe they just accepted you as a part of their team? You tried to _kill_ two of them in Washington!", Cathy said indignantly.

Brock’s smile contained a hint of teeth. “Yes, I did. And believe me, the Black Widow knows how to hold a grudge. But they are professionals. For Coulson’s sake, they kept an eye on me and let me work with them. And used every opportunity to test my loyalty, of course, tried to get me to trip up."

“And judging by Agent Barton’s e-mail, they were satisfied by Brock’s behaviour", Jemma butted in.

“After only three months?", Cathy asked, still not satisfied.

Jemma blushed a little. “Well, actually, they’ve only been going on missions together for one month. All that testing took a long time."

“One month? That’s not nearly enough time to get to know someone."

Sarah leaned forward in her seat and caught Brock’s eye. She held his gaze for a few seconds, then asked: “Your injury. It has something to do with that, doesn’t it?"

Brock sighed. He hadn’t meant to talk about this incident, not after Sarah’s worried confession the night before. Especially not now that they knew the soulmate bond was already active. He looked over to Jemma. She had paled but, after only a short hesitation, pressed her lips into a firm line and nodded. So Brock confirmed Sarah’s suspicion.

“Yes. I got captured by Hydra when we were raiding one of their bases last week. They tortured me for information until the Avengers got me out. Hawkeye found a recording of the questioning that proved I didn’t give anything up."

Brock’s confession prompted an uncomfortable silence. Cathy opened her mouth, then closed it again. It seemed that she didn’t know what to say.

“Well, I can’t say that I’m happy about this development", David finally stated in his calm, unexcited manner. “It certainly would’ve been easier if you were a normal guy. But under the circumstances, it also could’ve been a lot worse. The judge seemed to think so, too. And of course I have faith in my daughter. If Fate thinks you two belong together, then I will not try to stand in your way."

“Thank you, Dad", Jemma said in a shaking voice, then she leaned over and hugged her father tightly.

Sarah watched them, smiling a little sadly. “To think I was worried because your soulmate’s a field agent... Turns out, he’s a terrorist. Okay, former terrorist. But still, it sounds like he has lots of enemies on both sides."

“I probably do", Brock admitted quietly. “But now I also have a lot of powerful allies. The Avengers may not like me, but they would do anything for Coulson. And they know how important Jemma is to him, so for her sake, they will keep me safe."

That wasn’t the whole truth, of course. If Coulson listened to Barton and Romanoff and sent Brock on regular S.H.I.E.L.D. missions, he’d be on his own. But it at least meant that if he should be taken again, they’d probably come and rescue him. Anyway, Sarah didn’t need to know about these details.

Sarah seemed to accept Brock’s reasoning. “That’s good to hear. Because I’ve seen the way you look at her, and I’m pretty sure we would be stuck with you even without the soulbond."

“You might be right, there", Brock smiled ruefully.

“Well then. In that case, I agree with my husband. Welcome to the family, Brock."

Brock felt a big weight lift from his chest. “Thank you. I can’t promise that you’ll never regret it, but I’ll do my best."

On the other side of the table, Cathy still didn’t look too happy. “For the record, I have a bad feeling about this. I mean, I believe you when you say you’re on Jemma’s side, and I don’t expect you to kill us all in our sleep. But I can’t un-see that footage from Washington. I can’t simply ignore that you killed dozens of people. I – I don’t think we’ll ever be _friends_."

“That’s okay", Brock assured her calmly. “I understand. All I ask for is that you don’t make Jemma suffer for it."

Cathy looked at her sister. “I learned a few things about you tonight that I rather wouldn’t have known, too. That you would develop such a nasty poison..."

“If you’d seen what I’ve seen at S.H.I.E.L.D., you would understand why I thought it was necessary", Jemma said quietly. “But I agree that it’s not the type of thing I’d usually condone. Which is why I persuaded the Director to stop using it and to destroy the formula. In the meantime, I’ve managed to develop a quick but safe narcotic instead."

“That sounds more like my sister." Cathy smiled hesitatingly. “Fine. I will try to give Brock a chance. And if I find that I can’t stand his presence, then we’ll just need to have some sisters-only time. Okay?"

“Yes. Thank you, Cathy." Jemma was visibly relieved.

Brock allowed himself a smile, too. “In that case, would you mind uncuffing me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another research-intensive chapter: Things To Do In Sheffield, a car that looked sufficiently old and cramped for what I had in mind, plus some exotic traditional English cooking. If anybody who's reading this is from around Sheffield and thinks I got something wrong, feel free to tell me :-).


	15. Holidays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all - sorry for the delay. RL is quite crazy at the moment... But I can assure you that writing is still my favourite hobby and that this story will be finished, even if the update frequency might decrease a bit.
> 
> Secondly, thank you very much for the comments! They warm my heart every time :-).
> 
> And, speaking about warming hearts - here's the last Christmas chapter for you! Again with some plot amongst the fluff, but overall it should be a pretty light chapter ;-).

Christmas morning was more like Christmas lunchtime this year. Having gone to bed so late, everyone slept in. As Jemma woke up, she found Brock still in bed. He was facing her, his eyes open, a gentle hand carding through her hair.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you", he murmured, voice still rough with sleep. “Your hair looked so soft, I couldn’t help touching it."

A happy feeling bloomed in Jemma's chest. It wasn't often that she saw Brock so unguarded – a special moment on a special day. She leaned forward to kiss him. “Merry Christmas."

“Merry Christmas", he smiled back.

“How’s your back?" He had been quite sore when they’d gone to bed, having spent so many hours cuffed to the table.

Brock shrugged. “Better. It’ll be fine after a hot shower."

“I’m glad to hear that. Then why don’t you shower first? We usually unpack the gifts after breakfast, but I feel like we’re going to skip breakfast today. It’s already ten o’clock."

Jemma was right. When they went downstairs a short while later, they found her parents reading in front of the fire place. Christmas carols were sounding from the radio, and there was a half-empty plate of mince pies on the table between them.

“Merry Christmas, sleepyheads", Sarah greeted them. “We haven’t prepared any breakfast today. But if you’re hungry, help yourselves."

Jemma made everyone some tea, and by the time she was done, Cathy had joined the others in the drawing room. It stung a bit to see that her sister had chosen a seat as far away from Brock as possible. But at least they were in the same room together.

“Thanks for the tea, Jemma. Well, now that we’re all here – who wants to unpack the first present?", Sarah asked.

It was one of many Simmons family traditions, ever since the children had been old enough that they could refrain from unpacking everything at once. It meant that each single present got more attention and served to pass the time until the big Christmas feast. This year was no different. They started with Sarah’s present to David, then she handed parcels to her daughters.

“It wasn’t easy to find something for you", Sarah said as she grabbed two brightly coloured presents from underneath the tree and gave them to Brock. “All Jemma would tell us about you was that you were an American field agent. And the field agent part didn’t help us much, because I’m sure S.H.I.E.L.D. can get you much better equipment than we could buy. So we decided to focus on the _American_."

“That sounds ominous", Jemma quipped. “Did you get him something embarrassingly local?"

“Of course", her father grinned back.

Sarah added: “Something tacky to remember us by and something to eat that you’re actually allowed to import to the States."

“No sheep intestines? I’m disappointed", Brock said jokingly. Then he unwrapped the first parcel. It was a plastic picture frame, excessively decorated with various plants and flowers and a small likeness of the manor house the two Simmons worked at. Probably bought at the house’s gift shop, if Brock’d had to guess. Inside the frame, there was a postcard that proudly proclaimed ‘Sheffield – Jewel of the North’ above an assortment of views of the town.

“Something to remember us by", Sarah laughed at his dubious face.

“Uh-huh."

“Come on, open the other one. It’ll sweeten the deal."

Brock did as he was told and held up a large box of chocolates. He grinned. “Thanks. Although I have a feeling I’m gonna be forced to share."

Jemma’s family turned their heads to look at her with knowing smirks. Innocently, she asked: “What?"

Not surprisingly, Cathy had brought the same kind of presents as the last few years: items from her latest fashion line. David got a rather boldly coloured tweed jacket that he promised to wear to the family reunion in the afternoon. Sarah immediately put on one of the two scarves from her parcel, while Jemma genuinely liked her new handbag. Brock chuckled when he unpacked the set of three matching corgy ties.

“I thought, if you’re my sister’s soulmate, you got to have at least _some_ sense of humour", Cathy commented. Her tense shoulders and crossed arms were in contrast to her flippant tone, but Jemma appreciated that her sister at least pretended that everything was perfectly fine.

Brock reciprocated by thanking Cathy politely. Then he took one of the three ties, a dark-red one that went well with his grey cashmere sweater, and tied it around his neck. His fingers flew over the high-quality fabric, creating a perfect knot even without a mirror. Jemma noticed her father's approving expression – as a private school alumni, he appreciated a correctly executed four-in-hand. Jemma briefly wondered why a STRIKE agent would have experience with formal wear, then she remembered that her soulmate had been a specialist first. And no, she was _not_ thinking about Ward, not on this perfect Christmas day.

Resolutely pushing all dark thoughts away, Jemma got up and proclaimed: “My turn!" As she had anticipated, Sarah, David and Cathy were happy about her presents to them. Fitz always accused her of being an eager beaver because she started looking for the presents in August, but she thought that her success proved her right.

“Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom?", Brock asked with laughing disbelief as he tore away the wrapping paper.

“You know the kind of movies I usually watch with Fitz and Skye – we’re not exactly known for our high cinematic standards", Jemma explained herself. “I thought maybe you and I could see it together if one of us is", she hesitated a moment, “sick again. It has lots of action scenes, and implausible science, and, you know, a plane crash and indigenous people who follow a bloodthirsty cult."

“That does seem familiar." Brock smiled, his expression unusually tender. “Thank you, Jemma."

“Oh, that wasn’t all. Here."

Brock unpacked the second present. She saw the surprise in his eyes as he studied the framed picture, but he didn’t say anything. He probably didn’t want to ask in front of her family. It was a close-up of the two of them laughingly sharing a piece of pizza, back on the evening of their first ‘date’ in his cell. Acquiring it hadn’t been easy. Skye had only agreed to give Jemma access to the security footage after she’d checked the logs to see that Jemma really had been in the cell at that time. Privacy rights and all that. Then, once Jemma had found a good still, she had commandeered Skye’s help again, this time to improve the image quality until it looked like a normal photograph. Reminding Brock of his time in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s custody wasn’t the purpose of this gift. It seemed that Brock understood this fine distinction, because he finally smiled at her and thanked her with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Then it was Brock’s turn to hand out presents. Sarah and David were clearly amused by the trinkets Brock had gotten them in the antiques quarter, which was what he’d been aiming for. Cathy made appreciative noises when she opened Brock’s parcel, which contained a big tin can of toffee. Jemma had a look at the brand and whistled. It seemed he had good taste in sweets as well as in women.

“And two little somethings for you. Merry Christmas."

Jemma could tell by the weight and shape of the first present that it must be a book. She was right. “Women in Science: Fifty Fearless Pioneers Who Changed the World", Jemma read out loud.

Brock seemed uncharacteristically nervous. “You told me on Catalina Island that you wanted to read real books more often. And this one only came out this summer, so I hope you haven’t read it yet."

“No, I haven’t. That’s brilliant, Brock, thank you!"

“You’re welcome", he smiled, relieved.

“And what’s this?" The second parcel was much smaller. As the gift wrap paper fell away, Jemma recognized a jewel box. She opened the lid and found a silver necklace with three small pendants – a tiny plane, an Erlenmeyer flask and a stylized eagle that, while not the S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle, resembled it quite closely. Brock had obviously chosen things that had meaning for both of them.

Brock cleared his throat. He seemed a bit embarrassed. “Do you like it? I know you don’t wear much jewellery in the lab, but I thought..."

“It’s beautiful, Brock. Thank you." When Jemma looked up, their gazes met. Brock’s expression softened into pleased happiness. Jemma smiled at him. She was pretty sure that the feelings he now displayed so openly were real, not just an act to fool her family. _Maybe he feels safer here than at the Playground. Maybe he just – enjoys spending time with me, without anyone looking over his shoulder all the time._ The moment stretched. Something in Brock’s expression shifted until Jemma expected him to lean forward and kiss her– _Why haven’t I ever noticed those flecks of gold in his irises before_, she thought dreamily–

Then Sarah’s dry voice broke the silence: “Wish I was that young and in love again. Aren’t they cute?"

Jemma blushed a deep scarlet, while Brock chuckled and rubbed his neck, embarrassed to be caught out. Cathy just huffed, David joined his wife in laughing loudly. When the noise had died down, Jemma’s father said: “Well, I hate to rush things, but we’re running a little late. I think we should get going soon."

“Good grief, you’re right", Sarah gasped with a glance at the clock. “Quick, everyone get dressed!"

On Christmas day, Sarah’s family traditionally gathered at her parents’ house. They had both died years ago, but Sarah’s brother Ian and his wife Moira lived there now. It was equally traditional that Moira got horribly drunk and started a fight with either her own husband or Gerald, the husband of Sarah’s sister Elizabeth. When she’d been younger, Jemma had always stolen away from the living room after the meal. After all, the house was large and full of hidden nooks and crannies, and she’d always had some freshly-unwrapped book to read. Now, as an adult and bringing her soulmate for the first time, she was afraid she’d be required to stay. _I hope it’s not a complete disaster this year. It’s bad enough that Brock had to go through inquisition last night, I don’t want to scare him off completely._

Because Sarah’s sports car only sat two people and Jemma could tell that Cathy wouldn’t want to ride with Brock, she volunteered to sit on the back seat of her Dad’s car. It took a lot of flexibility, but her recent fondness of the S.H.I.E.L.D. gym and some yoga practice meant that she managed. The drive took less than an hour, anyway. When they got out of the car, Brock surreptitiously stretched his back and legs. Jemma grinned.

“Longing for a Quinjet?"

Brock laughed quietly. “Just about, yeah. So. I see you’re used to big houses from both sides of your family."

Jemma shrugged. “I never really thought about it that way. It was always just Grandma’s and Granddad’s house." But if she tried to look at it as an outsider might, it was a rather large house. Huh. She grimaced. “Sorry, Brock. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. Look, we haven’t really talked about this visit that much, what with all the excitement last night. I meant to warn you, my aunt Moira..."

“Jemma, Brock, are you coming?", David interrupted her. He’d already gone on to the door and rung the bell.

Brock briefly squeezed Jemma’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve been to state dinners, I’ll manage Christmas with your relatives."

Jemma wasn’t so sure. But before she could say anything else, the door opened and Moira’s dog jumped down the steps, yapping loudly.

“David, Jemma, good to see you!", Ian’s voice boomed across the drive. “And you must be the mysterious Brock, then."

“Mysterious?", Brock asked amusedly as he shook Ian’s hand.

Jemma’s uncle waved them all inside. “Yes, all Sarah would tell us was that you met at work. I sense a theme, there. But Jemma’s work is a bit more interesting than David and Sarah’s."

“Hey, I resent that remark", Sarah said from inside the house. Of course she and Cathy had been much faster in the sports car than the other three in David’s old Vauxhall.

Jemma relaxed a bit as introductions were made. Nobody seemed to be drunk yet. In the dining room, a long table had been set with the “good" china that was only taken out on special occasions. Holly and candles were spread between the settings, and on every place there was a green and gold Christmas cracker. Through the antique wooden sliding door that led into the living room, Jemma spotted a huge Christmas tree that was laden with twinkling ornaments. Everything looked exactly the same as every year. Well, except for the mobile phones that her cousins Jake and Sheila seemed to be glued to, these were a more recent addition.

“Come on through, everyone – the main course is almost ready, but there’re still some entrees left", Moira called from the kitchen.

“David, you must try some of the smoked salmon. Gerald caught it just last week", Elizabeth said with a polite smile, pointing at one of the many plates on the kitchen counter. “Brock, would you like some fish?"

“Sure, thank you", Brock said, grabbing a cracker from a plate and putting a little of the salmon on it. “So you’re Jemma’s aunt?"

“Obviously", Elizabeth said drily. “If you’re interested in embarrassing childhood stories, I’m the one to ask. Sarah always pretends to have forgotten all about how clumsy Jemma was as a kid."

“That so?", Brock asked with a cheeky grin.

“Don’t you dare!", Jemma mock-glared at her aunt. She could guess which stories her aunt was thinking about, and she had no desire to let those stories get back to S.H.I.E.L.D. She’d never get Fitz to stop teasing her about the incident with the ostrich egg if he ever found out about it. Although, if Brock knew what was good for him, he’d better keep the knowledge to himself...

Both Elizabeth and Brock laughed. Jemma pointed a cracker at Brock accusingly, almost shaking off the crumbly cheese she’d spread on it. “I’m warning you, Mister. I have a very good memory. For every embarrassing story you hear about me, I’ll tell one about you."

“Getting out the big guns, are we?", Brock asked jokingly. He obviously didn’t expect Jemma to divulge anything too horrible (like the fact that he used to be a terrorist) and therefore wasn’t too worried. _And he’s right, of course. But I’m sure I can come up with something else._

Before the conversation could derail further, Moira loudly told everyone to: “Go and have a seat already!" The group slowly ambled over to the dining room. Jemma subtly steered Brock to the end of the table that had been occupied by her cousins, placing him between Jake and herself. Her parents took the seats across from Brock and Jemma, if by chance or to shield him from the more obnoxious of their relatives, Jemma wasn’t quite sure.

“Watch out, turkey incoming!", Ian announced as he brought a large platter to the table. Moira wasn’t far behind, carrying a bowl with roasted potatoes and pumpkin and another one with peas. As her husband distributed meat to everyone, Moira made several more trips between kitchen and dining room, bringing more bowls with carrots and brussels sprouts, as well as sauce boats with cranberry and bread sauce.

“Wow", Brock said looking at all the food. “Where’s the football team that’s gonna help us finish this off?"

Sarah laughed. “Don’t worry, there’ll be nothing left. There never is, right Jake?"

“Hm." The teenager hadn’t even looked up from his phone.

Sarah frowned. So did Elizabeth from next to her sister. “Jake! Can’t you put that thing away for five minutes? You too, Sheila!"

A very put-upon sigh was accompanied by a grumbled “Yes, Mum".

“They sound just like the ducklings when Woo collected their phones before training", Brock discreetly whispered in Jemma’s ear. She quickly covered up her amused snort by pretending to cough into her napkin.

Soon after, silence descended as every mouth was filled with food. It was delicious, as every year. When everyone but Ian was finished with the main course, conversation started up. Elizabeth, who was an English literature mayor and chairwoman on the Sheffield Central Library’s board, lamented about recent budget cuts. Sarah commiserated loudly – the National Trust couldn’t spend money indiscriminately either. Cathy entertained the other end of the table with the latest gossip from London. The capital was always a good source for hair-raising stories. Finally, Ian put down his fork and declared: “Well done, honey, as always."

Moira smiled broadly, toasting her husband with her wineglass. “And you haven’t even tried the dessert yet."

“Oh, I can’t wait", Ian declared and jumped up, starting to collect plates.

When Jemma got up to help clear the table, Brock joined her. On their way to the kitchen, Jemma asked quietly: “Everything okay?"

“Sure. Don’t gotta worry about me."

His relaxed smile sent a warm, happy feeling all through Jemma. She just couldn’t help it – she got up on tip-toes and gave Brock a quick peck on the lips.

“Eew", a teenaged voice said from behind them. It was Jake. “Great. Now I’m imagining you having sex. Double eew, old-people sex!"

“Hey, who are you calling old?", Jemma asked, affronted, even as she felt her face heat.

Brock just raised an eyebrow. “He’s having you on, aren’t you? I bet they have Youporn in Sheffield."

Now it was Jake’s turn to be embarrassed. He fled back into the living room with burning ears. Brock chuckled, then bent down to kiss Jemma back. “Can’t let ourselves be bested by an ankle-biter, right?"

“No, we can’t have that", Jemma smiled. Then her expression became more thoughtful. “You’re in a really good mood today. How come?"

Brock shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe because we came clean to your family yesterday. One less thing to worry about."

“Yeah. I’m glad, too." _Even though I would’ve been much happier if Cathy had accepted you, too._ Not wanting to dampen Brock’s spirits, Jemma pulled lightly on his hand and suggested: “Come on, let’s distribute some dessert plates."

Moira proudly put the blazing Christmas pudding on the table. Home-made, of course. It was a huge thing, chock full of dried fruits and exuding the smell of spices and burning brandy. After the heavy main course, nobody but Ian ever managed a second slice of the pudding, even though Jake would probably try. Jemma poured a generous amount of cream over her own and Brock’s plates. “Believe me, that makes it even better!"

Brock poked at the steaming pudding a little dubiously. “If you say so..."

“Have you never had a Christmas pudding before, Brock?", Elizabeth asked.

“I’m afraid not. We usually had ice cream in my family."

Brock’s tone was still light, but there was a tightening around his eyes. Moira looked absolutely scandalized by his admission. Jemma, on the other hand, could easily guess why Barbara Rumlow had never prepared any elaborate holiday dessert. With a pang, Jemma wondered when Brock’s mother’s alcoholism had started – how many Christmases had she ruined for her son?

Luckily, Elizabeth didn’t notice any of the undercurrents that were suddenly threatening the conversation. “Well, you can’t really get a better example of traditional British cooking than Moira’s pudding. So enjoy." Elizabeth smiled and dug into her own plate.

Brock carefully took a bite. Jemma looked at him expectantly. “And?"

“Hm. Tastes quite good."

“_Quite good?_ Did you hear that, Ian?", Moira exclaimed from a few seats down.

“I did indeed", her husband boomed. “Must be that famous American understatement."

“_American_ understatement?", Jemma asked incredulously.

Ian winked. Then he made a gesture that included Jemma’s empty plate and full wine glass and said: “Well, dear niece. We’ve fed and watered you, so how about you repay us with a little story?"

“A little story?", Jemma asked, alarmed. Even though her parents owned a big book with Christmas short stories that had seen a lot of use when Jemma and Cathy had been children, she couldn’t remember a single one. And even if she had been able to recall the plot, she was bollocks at telling stories.

“Of course, silly. You know we’re a nosy bunch. We’ve been waiting for this story for half a year now", Elizabeth backed her brother up.

When Jemma still looked confused, Brock coughed. “I think they want to know how me met."

“Oh. _Oh._" _But I’m horrible at lying face-to-face_, Jemma thought panicky.

Under the table, Brock’s hand stroked Jemma’s leg soothingly. His expression was completely relaxed as he asked with a smile: “Do you want the honours, or shall I tell the story?"

_He’s such a good actor_, Jemma thought. _It’s better for operational security if I leave the job to him, right?_ She almost managed to convince herself that she wasn’t chickening out. “You go ahead", she finally answered with what she hoped was an easy smile.

As Brock opened his mouth to start, Cathy pushed her chair backwards, the chair legs scraping loudly over the wooden floor. She mumbled something about “bathroom" and “know the story already". Fortunately, nobody seemed to find it odd.

Brock’s relaxed expression didn’t waver. “You all know who Jemma works for, right?"

“A shady government agency", Gerald muttered just loudly enough to be heard. It was the first thing he’d said during the meal. Elizabeth sent her husband a quelling look.

Brock just laughed it off. “Parts of S.H.I.E.L.D. used to be shady, you’re right. But not the parts that Jemma worked for. We’ve been vetted by the UN and everything. Jemma’s mainly doing research, helping with all sorts of threats to the public. Unfortunately, she’s not allowed to talk about most of her missions. Although you _can_ talk about that Biology professor you helped arrest last fall, right? That’s a pretty good story, maybe they can bribe you into sharing it later."

Jemma nodded amiably, marveling how Brock managed to get everyone – even Gerald and the teenagers – to hang on his lips.

“I’m working for S.H.I.E.L.D., too. Have been with them much longer than Jemma, actually, a good twenty years now. No need to spend a decade studying and getting degrees to become a field agent." His smile invited the others to join in the joke. Ian, who owned an antiques shop and hadn’t been to university either, obligingly chuckled.

“I’m afraid most of my missions were even more confidential than Jemma’s, so there isn’t much I’m allowed to tell you about. But let’s get to the interesting part." Brock looked at Jemma with a gentle smile on his face. Behind him, Jemma could see Elizabeth’s eyes soften and Gerald roll his eyes at the romantic display. Jemma was sure that Brock had deliberately caused that reaction.

“After she graduated from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Academy, Jemma went straight to a small, specialized field team. I, on the other hand, have been with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s general purpose fast response team for the last fifteen years or so. That’s why we didn’t meet until last summer. With the personnel situation still slightly... _tense_ after what happened in 2014, Jemma helped out as a field medic. And I came into the unfortunate situation of needing a field medic. I guess I don’t have the best reputation of being a compliant patient, so when Jemma’s boss briefed her–" Brock pushed up the sleeve of his sweater, opened the buttons on his cuff and pushed up the shirt sleeve, too.

Even after four months, it still made Jemma tingle all over to see her own writing on Brock’s tanned skin. _That sounds like you’re going to be a piece of work, huh?_

Elizabeth laughed openly. “That’s Sarah’s daughter. Polite English upbringing, my arse."

Sarah slapped her sister, while Jemma turned bright red and the rest of the table broke into laughter.

“Did you at least reply in kind?", Elizabeth asked when everyone had calmed down a little.

Now it was Brock’s turn to be abashed. He rubbed his neck and watched as Jemma prepared to push her own sleeves up. “Well. In my defense, I was pretty high on painkillers..."

“_So pretty!_", Moira exclaimed loudly. Jemma jumped. She hadn’t even noticed that her aunt had gotten up and positioned herself behind Jemma’s chair to get a better look at the writing. “Isn’t that cute?"

“What else was he going to say to a girl as lovely as my daughter?", David piped up drily. This prompted another round of laughter and jeering. Jemma was quietly glad that her parents didn’t seem disturbed by hearing Brock lie to everyone else. They knew that the true story was far less funny, after all.

Gerald was the only one who hadn’t joined in the general joking. As the noise died down, he asked archly: “David, I don’t understand how you can be so calm about his. Your daughter’s soulmate is on a secret ‘rapid response team’. You know what that’s code for, right? They’re the government’s thugs. The guys that make people with inconvenient opinions disappear – or ‘unexpectedly commit suicide’."

Brock blinked in surprise. Jemma berated herself: _Blast. I should’ve warned Brock that Gerald’s a pacifist._ At least her sister hadn’t returned from the bathroom yet, or she might’ve blown their secret.

David remained his usual calm and polite self. “It’s not a secret team, Gerald. As Brock said, they have a UN mandate. And personally, I’m glad that Jemma has someone to watch out for her who knows what he’s doing."

“Hah", Gerald huffed derisively. “UN mandate. They’re a bunch of bloodthirsty killers, that’s what they are."

“Bloodthirsty", Brock repeated tonelessly.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Jemma saw Cathy appear in the doorway. Her heart sank. _Please don’t let this escalate..._ While she was still frantically searching for the right thing to say to distract Gerald, a determined look came over Brock’s face.

“You think we’re bloodthirsty, huh? Well, I said I’m not allowed to talk about most things. But if you want, I can tell you a bloodthirsty story. One that’s set in England, actually."

There was mild alarm on Sarah’s and David’s faces now, too. But Gerald just looked at Brock challengingly. “Sure."

“Alright. It was in 2009. There had been a large number of suicide bombings in Iraq, there was chaos in Afghanistan, everyone was quite nervous. Then our analysts intercepted some messages between Iranian diplomats. _“Are you still planning to go through with it?" – “Yes. There will be blood."_ When they found out the diplomat was scheduled to visit England, of course everyone expected a terror attack. My boss sent parts of my team and myself to observe the man, keep him from doing whatever he’d planned. So we followed him around for a week, even had one of my team break into his hotel and check his luggage for explosives. And you didn’t hear anything about a bombing in England in 2009, did you?"

Everyone shook their heads no.

Brock smiled crookedly. “But that’s not because we shot the guy. Or made him ‘disappear’", he quoted Gerald with a significant look. “You wanna know what his big plan was? He got one of his minions to buy him some black pudding."

“Black pudding", Moira deadpanned.

Brock nodded. “Yeah. Because of the pig blood, right? It wasn’t halal, so he couldn’t get it in Iran."

There were relieved chuckles around the table. Jemma let out the breath she’d been holding. Even Cathy couldn’t help a little twitch of her lips. Gerald, however, shot Brock a dark look. Just as the older man opened his mouth to say something cutting, Moira intervened.

“Don’t be a sourpuss, Gerald. Brock here got one over on you, just accept it. Now enough with the serious talk, it’s cracker time!"

Gerald didn’t seem to agree, but nobody ever managed to win against Moira when she was in steam roller mode. “Jemma, be a dear and hold my glass for a moment. Ian, honey, come on."

As her aunt and uncle each grabbed one end of one of the green-and-gold christmas crackers on the table, Jemma blinked in surprise. Usually, Moira was the one to _escalate_ arguments, not end them. Brock, who didn’t know anything about all that because _Jemma had forgotten to tell him, damnit_, was focusing on something else – he was looking at Moira’s glass with interest.

“That looks like grape juice. D’you think I could get some?"

Surprised, Jemma turned toward her soulmate. “Grape juice? No, Moira always..." She trailed off as her nose told her that Brock was right. It was red grape juice. When Moira returned, a paper crown on her head, and held out her hand expectantly for her glass, Jemma asked bluntly: “Moira, why are you drinking grape juice?"

Her aunt froze. “Erm."

“Grape juice?", a new voice asked. It was Sarah, who had gotten up to carry the empty dessert plates back into the kitchen. “Is that a euphemism?"

There was an annoyed frown on Moira’s face. “Oh, would you two busybodies please mind your own business?"

“Busybodies", Sarah repeated incredulously. “Us? _You_ are telling _us_ to mind our own business?"

Moira huffed. “Oh, fine. _Fine._ I’m in therapy. I haven’t had a single drop of alcohol for seven months now."

Jemma and her mother were stunned into silence. Next to her, Jemma felt Brock stiffen. _Poor Brock. I bet there was a time when he would’ve wished his Mum to do the same._

Finally, Sarah found her voice. “Why so secret about it? That’s great news, Moira, I’m happy for you."

Moira tentatively returned her sister-in-law’s smile. “Thank you. I guess – I guess it’s still a bit hard for me to admit that my drinking was a problem."

“Yes, I can imagine", Sarah commiserated.

Suddenly, Brock’s hand shot forward. Sarah yelped. She had been so preoccupied by Moira’s revelation that she hadn’t noticed when the pile of plates in her hands started tilting to the side. Only Brock’s quick reflexes had stopped them all from crashing to the floor.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you."

“No need to apologize", Sarah breathed after the initial shock had passed. “You saved me from getting a horrible lecture from Ian for breaking his precious china. Can you help me get these things to the kitchen?"

“Sure, no problem."

An hour later, the table had been cleared. Brock had suffered through Ian reading the lame jokes from the Christmas crackers without complaint and was wearing his paper crown with style. Everyone was gathering in the living room in preparation for the Doctor Who Christmas special, quickly grabbing some drinks or snacks to take with them.

Jemma was in a good mood. Most of the potentially dangerous conversational topics had already been navigated during the meal, Moira wouldn’t get drunk this year, and Cathy seemed to slowly relax as Brock kept his distance from her. Distractedly, Jemma watched as Ian ambled closer to Brock, a small tumbler filled with amber liquid in his hand. He tended to ignore such trivial social notions as personal space. So Jemma wasn’t overly surprised when Ian clapped a hand on Brock’s shoulder and took a deep breath to start off on one of his famous monologues. She _was_ surprised by Brock’s flinch – for about a second, then she could’ve slapped herself. _Oh, shoot. His broken ribs. I should’ve thought of that!_

Judging by his sudden frown, Ian had noticed, too.

Brock smiled apologetically. So he’d noticed that Ian had noticed. Trying to downplay his own reaction, Brock said: “Sorry, I’m a bit sore. My partner was a little over-enthusiastic in our last sparring session before Christmas."

Ian’s eyebrows almost hit his receding hairline. “If you’re still feeling it now, I’d recommend looking for a new partner."

“Maybe I should", Brock agreed drily. “They’re kind of hard to come by, though. I had to get my current one all the way from Australia."

“Australia, huh? I thought you Americans were all dying to become Special Agents. Literally, sometimes." Ian laughed loudly.

Brock’s answering smile was a little strained. “You’d be surprised."

“That’s enough talk about work", Moira chided as she bustled past, a tray with sweets and crisps in her hands. “Remember our agreement, darling."

Ian huffed. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. Let’s talk about something else, then..." Suddenly, his face lit up. “Oh, I know! Tell me, Brock, what did you think about the final?"

“Which final?"

“Which final, he asks!", Ian guffawed. “The rugby sevens at the Summer Olympics, of course!"

“Really, Ian?", Jemma asked disbelievingly. She had come closer to provide some support for her soulmate. “That’s a trick question, right? You know that rugby’s not that popular in the States."

Brock laughed. “Actually, I watched that game. Fiji absolutely smashed Great Britain. What was it, 40:7?"

“43:7", Ian grumbled. “It was embarrassing. _Everyone_ knows that Fiji..." And with that, he was off. Brock nodded along pleasantly, and Jemma smiled to herself. She shouldn’t have worried so much. Brock had obviously not been exaggerating when he’d told her that he could handle a party.

A few minutes later, when they sat next to each other on the couch and the iconic introduction song was playing, Jemma quietly asked Brock if he’d really seen the game.

“Yeah." Brock smiled a little sadly. “It was two weeks before you caught me, actually. I was already in Singapore, staking out the museum, so I had a lot of time on my hands. And because there was a TV with a good sports channel in my flat, I was following the Olympics sporadically, but..." Brock licked his lips, briefly looked up at the ceiling, then back down at Jemma. “You see, Jack was a big rugby fan. He always used to make me watch the Australian test matches with him. So when I heard that they’d made it Olympic, I kinda got a little nostalgic."

Jemma’s eyes softened in sympathy. “Oh, Brock..."

He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “Let’s not talk about it now, yeah? Look, the show’s starting."

Jemma nodded silently and turned towards the TV, but in her head the wheels had started turning. _There’s still so, so much I don’t know about him. And the sad thing is, I'm missing the_ good _parts. It’s kind of unfair that I learned about all the bad things from his confession, but he didn’t have a chance to balance that with the nice things yet. Well, apart from his sex skills. Those actually balance a lot._ Jemma blushed a little, glad that nobody was paying her any attention. _Still. I should make an effort to get him to open up more. Maybe it’d make_ him _happy, too, if he was able to recall some bright moments of his past. That’s a good resolution for the new year, isn’t it? But it will probably work better if I’m offering up some stories of my own first. Well, I’ve made a good start here in Sheffield, I’ll just have to keep it up when we’re back at the Playground._

Satisfied with her plan, Jemma snuggled a little deeper into Brock’s embrace and finally started paying attention to the show.

  
* ∼ *

When Brock got onto the plane, he noticed that it was almost empty. Most of the British S.H.I.E.L.D. agents with functional enough families chose to take the majority of their annual leave over the holidays. Jemma was no exception, her plan was to spend New Year’s with her family and visit some old friends in the meantime. Brock, on the other hand, had a meeting with Kowalski scheduled for the twenty-seventh, so he had to return earlier. He hadn’t told Jemma, but Brock had a second reason for returning so soon: He didn’t want to try Coulson’s patience. After all, he knew that the Director still didn’t fully trust him and that he’d been lucky to be granted the unsupervised time at all. But it had been worth it, the trip had been so much better than Brock could’ve hoped for. Sure, coming clean to Jemma’s family had been awkward – but amazingly, David and Sarah seemed to be okay with his past. Maybe because they couldn’t fully comprehend the magnitude of what he’d done, maybe because they wanted their daughter to be happy and would blend out everything that didn’t fit the picture. But Brock thought that they genuinely liked him (or at least the part of him that he’d allowed them to see). This meant that the number of people liking him had tripled over the last few days – Jemma being the only other person in that category. And that felt good, even to someone like Brock who’d always thought that he didn’t care about other people’s opinions.

Brock stared out the small window. None of the other few agents on the plane had tried to talk to him, on the contrary, they’d all sat down as far away from him as possible. That was fine with him. He knew that he didn’t deserve their trust, and he surely didn’t need their company. It left him more time to reflect on the last week. Brock was surprised how reluctant he was to leave England. The unpleasantness of Cathy’s discovery of his true past aside, it had been a very nice holiday. Now he came to think of it, it had been the first thing even resembling a holiday since... oh. Five years? In the lead-up to Insight, Hydra had _requested_ Brock’s presence at their bases during his official S.H.I.E.L.D. leave. Compared to some of the other things they’d asked of him, it had been a small sacrifice. Even before that, Brock had often volunteered to spend his free time doing work for Hydra. He’d truly believed in the Cause back then, so nothing else could’ve been more worthwile. _Fuck, I was so naive._ There had been a handful of real holidays, though. Mostly because Jack had badgered Brock into accompanying him. They’d gone scooba diving a few times, and Brock had loved it. Maybe that would be something that Jemma–

_No. Not after she almost drowned in the ocean. Twice, if I count the time she jumped out of the Bus._ But Brock was sure he’d be able to come up with something else that his soulmate would like. If she even wanted to go on vacation with him. _But why wouldn’t she? It was obvious that she enjoyed spending time with me in Sheffield._ Maybe he’d be able to show her around Washington one day. It certainly felt more like home to him than the shithole he’d grown up in. Or they could do something completely different, go hiking in New Zealand or something like that. Brock smiled to himself. _If I manage to get her out of her lab for a few days._

After the landing, Brock only had an hour to return his things to his room, get changed and catch his ride. Brock had hoped that he would be allowed to go to Washington in a regular car rather than the prisoner transport vehicle of the last trip, and he wasn’t disappointed. However, the identity of his driver took him by surprise.

“Brock Rumlow. Not someone I thought I’d ever see again. Except in a morgue, maybe", Maria Hill greeted him in the garage.

“Agent Hill", Brock replied warily. He knew that Hill had always been absolutely loyal to Fury, so he could guess that she wouldn’t be happy about Brock getting off lightly. _Come to think of it – why haven’t I seen her before? Isn’t she stationed here? Huh, maybe she’s the one who’s taken over command of the Hub, now that Hand’s dead. I’ll have to ask Jemma about it, or see if this kind of information’s published on the intranet. With my new permissions, it’s time to gather more intel about the way the agency is run nowadays._ That kind of information was always useful if one wanted to further one’s own career.

While he was thinking all this, Brock kept looking around for his driver. His gaze returned to Hill, who asked drily: “Waiting for a special invitation?"

When realization dawned, Brock’s surprise must have registered on his face, because the Deputy Director smirked. Then she said: “Don’t let it get to your head, Rumlow. I needed to go to Washington anyway, someone else will take you back tonight."

“Yes, Ma’am."

When in doubt, fall back to standard procedure. Brock got into the car without another word. They rode the first fifty miles in silence. Then Hill said out of the blue: “I read your confession."

Back when Fury had appointed Hill as his Deputy, there had been many rumours why it had been her rather than one of the older, more experienced agents. Some of the rumours had been so sexist (and completely out of line with Fury’s character) that they didn’t warrant a second thought. Others seemed more realistic. Personally, Brock believed that Hill had been chosen because she combined Coulson’s attention to detail and meticulous planning with Hand’s ruthlessness and Romanoff’s ability to fool people into thinking she was just a pretty face. Reading a two-hundred page confession? That sounded like something she might actually do and not just bluff about.

“And? Did it confirm all your suspicions?"

“Most of them. My fingers certainly itched for a gun a few times."

That wasn’t very surprising. Brock remarked drily: “So did Agent Morse’s, if I read her right."

“Yes. If you ask me, she showed quite a lot of restraint."

Brock tensed as Hill suddenly pulled over. She turned to look him in the eye. “I have to ask, though. Was anything you said to her a lie?"

“No." He’d thought about lying, especially once he knew that Jemma was watching the recordings. But in the end, he’d always forced himself not to sugarcoat anything.

“Did you leave anything out?"

“No."

Hill kept staring at his face. Finally, she nodded and pulled back onto the road. After a few more miles, she said: “There were a few things that I’d have expected you to have done but that weren’t in the confession."

“Let me guess. Rape? Murdering innocents for fun?"

“Amongst others."

Brock knew he shouldn’t feel insulted, especially considering that there were enough Hydra agents who had done exactly that. Still, Brock sighed before explaining in a neutral voice: “I didn’t join Hydra because I like violence. I truly believed in what they wanted to accomplish."

“World domination?", Hill asked sarcastically.

Brock didn’t rise to the bait. “A new world order, based on merit rather than birth." Hill opened her mouth but Brock kept going: “You gotta admit, our public schools are crap and college fees are horrendous. So if your parents don’t have money you gotta be _really_ good to get into a position of power in this country."

At least she gave him the courtesy of hearing him out. The sarcasm didn’t leave her voice, though, as she retorted: “The diagnose might be correct, but I think you’ve chosen the wrong remedy. A bunch of nazis probably don’t have everyone’s best interest at heart."

“Yes, I noticed that. A little late, maybe", Brock allowed.

“You mean, twenty years too late."

“Hm."

They lapsed back into silence. As they made their way through Washington, Brock stared out of the window, lost in thought. He’d lived here almost ten years, in a small apartment at the edge of town. And even though the shadow of his superiors’ mercurial moods (Fury not being much more forgiving of mistakes than Pierce) had always hung over him, it hadn’t been a bad time. On the contrary. Many of his happiest pre-Jemma memories fell into this time, back when he and his STRIKE team had been almost like one big family. _Fuck. Why do I keep thinking about Jack whenever I’m here? Get a grip, Rumlow._

After what felt like an eternity, Hill stopped the car in front of a tall building. “Do you think you can find the way?"

“I’m a spy, Hill. I’ve memorized the location of the office", Brock deadpanned.

“Just making sure you can’t put the blame on me if you don’t arrive at the meeting. For whatever reason", Hill said innocently.

Brock frowned. “With all due respect, Deputy Director – you know I won’t try to run. Not now that things are going so well. So why do you try to provoke me?"

Hill was quiet for a long moment, her eyes never leaving Brock’s face. Finally, she said: “Because I don’t believe that the man who launched the Insight ’carriers and tried to kill Captain America is really on our side now. And I’m not sure I ever will."

Brock took a moment to think that through. As STRIKE Commander, he had often received orders from Hill or given her reports. She’d dressed him down a time or two when his team had fucked up an op (usually because Hydra’s orders had gone against S.H.I.E.L.D.’s), but she’d also been the one to officially congratulate him after a job well done. In short, they’d worked together quite closely. It was understandable that Hill would be especially pissed off at Brock’s betrayal. And since he’d managed to fool her for so many years, it also made sense that she didn’t believe anything he said now. So Brock finally nodded and conceded: “Fair enough. I don’t expect you to trust me. But I do expect that you trust your Director."

Hill pursed her lips. “It’s my job to double-check the Director’s decisions. I’ll keep a close eye on you, Rumlow."

“If it makes you happy", Brock replied with outward calm. Inwardly, he was a bit unnerved by the other agent’s attention. He didn’t care if she was watching _him_, but he didn’t want to drag Jemma into this. Well, he’d just have to wait and see what happened.

Hill wordlessly pressed a button on the dashboard to unlock Brock’s door. He nodded curtly and got out equally silently. After Hill’s interrogation, the interview with Kowalski was going to be a walk in the park.

The officer greeted Brock with the words: “No guards today, huh? And no handcuffs."

“You can cuff me if it makes you feel better. My in-laws did", Brock said drily.

Kowalski barked out a short laugh. “Okay, I bite. Tell me about it."

Brock obliged. He told Kowalski how nice it had been to be on holiday for the first time in years, how Jemma’s parents had easily accepted him. And how it had all gone pear-shaped as Jemma’s sister realized who he was.

“Could have been worse", Kowalski remarked. “Someone could’ve recognized you on the street, that would’ve been ugly. Or Hydra could’ve made another attempt to capture you, like they did two weeks ago."

Brock thought about telling Kowalski that it had been STRIKE Team Delta that had kidnapped and tortured him. Then he decided against it. He’d promised Barton that it would stay between the three of them, and besides, it made having Barton and Romanoff on his side more impressive. So Brock only shrugged.

“You’re right. Plus, once they got over the first shock and agreed to just cuff me to the table instead of calling the police, Jemma’s family listened to me. To us. We went through the court transcripts together and I explained some of my reasoning. In the end, her parents accepted me as part of the family. Her sister still doesn’t like me, but at least she’s not actively working against me. That’s already much better than I expected."

“That’s good to hear", Kowalski said. “Anything else remarkable?"

Brock coughed. “Well. There was one incident. I almost tackled a woman in a shopping mall because I thought she was going to attack Jemma. Turns out, they were school mates and she just wanted to give Jemma a hug."

“Hm. Yes, that kind of thing happens to a lot of veterans, too. As long as you know it’s a risk and don’t act on your impulses..."

“I’m doing my best."

“Good. In that case, I’ll see you in four weeks."

The ride back to the Playground was much quieter. It seemed that the Level 5 agent who drove the car wasn’t interested in conversation. Brock was fine with that, his body was still on British time and thought it was the middle of the night. He went to sleep as soon as they arrived, hoping to get over the jet leg as soon as possible.

The next morning, there was a knock on his door.

“The Director wants to talk to you." An agent that Brock had never seen before handed him a mobile phone, then turned around and left. Puzzled, Brock looked at the screen and saw that a call was active. He held the phone to his ear.

“Hello?"

“Rumlow. Good news. I need an errant boy, no one else is available, so you get to go on a solo op. There’s a briefing package waiting for you in the garage."

Brock blinked. That was a lot faster than he had expected. Would Coulson have allowed this without Barton’s recent e-mail? He didn’t know and decided not to care. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.

“Understood. Thank you, Sir."

“Don’t make me regret it, Rumlow. Oh, and you can keep the phone."

The call disconnected without further pleasantries. Brock was used to this kind of behaviour from Fury and therefore just shrugged and pocketed the phone. Since he didn’t know what Coulson had planned for him, Brock quickly grabbed both his tack gear and some more inconspicuous clothes from his room before going to the garage. It was a relief to be able to open the door himself. Inside, there was a metal briefcase standing in front of a dark blue car. A manila folder lay on top of the suitcase. There was no other living soul to be seen. _Okay_.

Brock opened the folder and read through the briefing. His eyebrows rose higher and higher. “You’ve got to be kidding me."

His task was to drive four hundred miles to pick up a pair of genetically modified turtles. Apparently, the scientist who’d worked with them had recently come to the attention of a lot of people, both benign and less so. Since S.H.I.E.L.D. was also interested in her work, they’d offered her a position in their science division. She’d agreed – under the condition that her test subjects would accompany her. But because S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t want Hydra, AIM or anyone else to know about this deal (or to swoop in and kidnap the scientist), they couldn’t just send in ordinary movers. Instead, Brock got to play animal driver.

Brock opened the suitcase. Inside, there were two boxes with food and a case with four syringes filled with a yellowish liquid. Because _of course_ it wasn’t stupid enough to drive a pair of turtles halfway across the country, no, they needed regular injections, too. What they were good for was apparently above Brock’s clearance level. All it said in the briefing package was that the turtles would start to rhythmically bob their heads when their level of whatever-it-was got too low. Which was why someone had installed a camera in the trunk and the corresponding monitor on the dashboard. Right. So, drive four hundred miles, lift two hundred-pound turtles in the trunk, and keep watching them on the ride back until they need their injections. Oh right, and hope that he wouldn’t be attacked by anyone. Compared to the other missions Brock had pulled for S.H.I.E.L.D. (and Hydra), this didn’t rank very high on the weirdness scale. And it was so close to the bottom of the danger scale that Brock would have been insulted, had he not known that this was both a test and punishment detail at the same time. Coulson was good at hitting two birds with one stone.

After he’d checked that the camera was working, Brock started the car and left the base. It felt strange to tell his own name to the guard at the gate and actually be let out. The perks of being on the right side of the law again.

As he drove, Brock had a lot of time to think. This was the first time since August that he was completely on his own. No guards, no babysitter, not even Jemma. If he’d wanted to, he could have tried to run now. It would have been pointless, of course, considering that he wore a tracker designed by Fitz and that he was in an active bond with Jemma – but he could have tried. It was slightly disconcerting for Brock to realize that he didn’t feel any desire to try.

Brock was a tactician. As such, he liked to have a plan. For a long time, that plan had been “bring Hydra to power". After the Insight debacle, it had changed to “don’t get caught". As Jemma’s soulmate and S.H.I.E.L.D.’s prisoner, his goals had been more short-term: win the soulmate appeal, pass Coulson’s test, pass Rogers’ test, get people (especially Coulson) to trust him so that he’d be granted greater freedom. Up to now, Brock had reached all of these goals. Maybe it was time to think a bit more long-term. What did he want to achieve?

_If you can’t have a revolution, you gotta use a series of reforms instead._ Brock’s revelation from Catalina Island was still true. And judging by the new S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook, the reforms were actually going in a direction that Brock could agree with. And thanks to Coulson’s bold move of placing S.H.I.E.L.D.’s future directly in the hands of the UN, the agency had turned into a major player on the global political stage. So if Brock wanted to stick to his decades-old goal of changing the world for the better, of giving better opportunities to kids from shitty families (kids like him), it would be a good idea to get to a position of power within S.H.I.E.L.D. _Bad luck, Rumlow. You were already almost at the top, if you hadn’t been Hydra, you might’ve been promoted to Level 9 by now._ Well, it was no use crying over spilt milk. If Brock wanted to be promoted, there were two options. He could either be a flawless agent, do whatever Coulson asked of him without complaining, make sure the Director never had a reason to be unhappy with him, and maybe get back to Level 8 in a decade or so. _Or_ he could go for big gestures, force Coulson’s hand by being so obviously better than the other agents at his level that the Director had no choice but to promote him quickly.

Take a guess which option was more appealing.

Brock was good enough at multitasking that he could watch the road, scan the surroundings for threats and at the same time think about possible “big gestures" that would impress Coulson. What was the Director’s goal? What was he working toward? Going by what Jemma had told Brock, S.H.I.E.L.D. was still quite busy mopping up their self-made mess, clearing out Hydra bases and hunting their heads. Brock himself had helped with that, working with the Avengers. But he’d already told Morse everything he knew about Hydra, so unless he got captured again or risked his life in another op against Hydra, it was hard to think of anything impressive in that direction. _Unless..._ Brock smiled. Unless he helped to capture someone that Coulson and his team hated even more than they’d hated him.

Grant Ward.

Jemma had more or less admitted that Skye and the Cavalry were hunting their former team mate. But since he hadn’t heard anything about Ward since his kidnapping of Jemma, Brock assumed that they’d been unsuccessful. Maybe he should offer his assistance. Since Woo didn’t have another set of ducklings yet, it wasn’t as if Brock had much else to do. Yes, this was an excellent idea. But how should he go about it? Straight out asking Coulson for permission probably wouldn’t work, he had to be more discreet than that. Since Brock was pretty sure that Skye was still at least a little afraid of him, Brock needed to get a hold of May somehow. But he hadn’t seen her since their rescue from Catalina Island. Well, he didn’t have to have the complete plan ready right now, it was enough to finally have a goal to work towards. And whatever he did, successfully completing whatever mission Coulson assigned him was necessary anyway. Even if it was babysitting turtles.

Brock had a quick lunch about fifty miles before the end of his journey. Better to get any bodily needs out of the way without sensitive cargo in the trunk. As he approached the campus where the scientist currently had her lab, Brock paid more attention to his surroundings, keeping an eye out for possible threats. But nothing happened. The directions in his briefing package led Brock to one of a set of similar concrete blocks, where he was met by a twitchy grad student. Together, they lifted the two transport boxes containing the turtles into the trunk of Brock’s car. Brock gritted his teeth as his ribs protested against the sudden strain. The cream was working wonders, but still, it took _time_ to heal broken bones. At least it didn’t feel as if he’d done any lasting damage. Brock managed to smile reassuringly at the young man, who nervously reminded Brock about the importance of the injections, then Brock was on his way again.

The ride back wasn’t much more exciting than the morning. Brock kept looking at the screen every few minutes and had to stop after about half the distance to give an injection to one of the turtles. The thing tried to bite him, but after having delt with crocodiles once, Brock knew how to avoid snapping jaws. Nevertheless, Brock was glad when the Playground’s gate finally came into view. _Mission accomplished._

When he’d checked his new phone that morning, Brock had been pleasantly surprised to find Jemma’s number already stored on it. Now it was evening, and therefore too late to call her in England. So Brock went to the gym instead and vowed to call her the next morning. As expected, she was happy to hear about his successful solo mission. She told him that she was enjoying spending quality time with her family, meeting with some old friends – “But it was nicer having you here." Jemma wasn’t enough of a romantic to tell him that she missed him, but he read the message between the lines. And it felt surprisingly good.

That day, Coulson sent Brock on another errand, this time to collect intel from a number of dead drops. Nothing exciting, but Brock treated the task with the same seriousness as he would infiltrating a Hydra base with the Avengers. After all, he wanted to make Coulson happy.

On the thirtieth, Brock spent most of the morning in the gym, then got roped into a spontaneous search-and-rescue mission in the afternoon. One of the turtles had escaped. How could you lose a hundred-pound turtle? Two hours later, the distressed animal was back in its holding pen and the equally distressed scientist in the tender care of the Playground’s medical staff.

The last day of the year was rainy and rather boring. S.H.I.E.L.D. was organising a party for the employees that had stayed at the Playground, and Brock had received an invitation just like everyone else. Normally, he would have seriously debated wheather or not he should attend. After all, Brock wasn’t naive. He knew that a good number of agents still wavered between fearing and hating him, which he really couldn’t fault them for. He _had_ tried to kill many of them, if indirectly, when he’d launched the Insight Helicarriers. Being at a party where you didn’t know anyone was bad enough, but being at a party with people you’d held at gunpoint once, well... But it occurred to him that May might be at the party, and that this might be the perfect opportunity to set his plan in motion. And even if she didn’t come – there was bound to be some good food at the party. And Brock had a tough hide, the others would probably feel more uncomfortable about having him there than he would about being there. And nobody had ever accused him of being _nice_. So Brock went to the party.

He’d guessed right, the food was good. Brock easily ignored the icy glances he collected from some of the attendees and instead scanned the crowd for familiar faces. _Ah. Jackpot._

“Agent May. I haven’t seen you for a few months."

Her eyebrows rose a little, apart from that, her face gave nothing away. “Babysitting traitor’s not my duty."

“No. But catching them is, isn’t it?"

May eyed him coolly. “What do you want, Rumlow?"

“To make myself useful."

“Right. Out of the goodness of your own heart."

“Of course not." Brock had had a few days to come up with a strategy to convince May. He could only hope that it would work. “You’ve spent five years in Administration as a Level 8. You must’ve read quite a few of my STRIKE team’s reports."

May nodded, her mouth twisting into a sneer. “Should’ve noticed something was foul much earlier."

“We did our best to make everything look kosher. But that’s not the point." Brock studied her a moment, willing her to believe him. “In the eight years that I was Commander, I lost two people. That’s only a quarter of what my predecessor lost in half the time. And do you know why that was? Because I protect what’s mine."

There was a slight twitch to May’s lips. “I heard some of your boys called you a mother hen."

“Not within my hearing they didn’t. But yeah, maybe it’s the right comparison. And I’m sure you can guess who I’m looking out for now."

“Don’t insult us, Rumlow. You’re not the only one who protects FitzSimmons."

“I’m not saying that. What I’m saying is that Grant Ward _kidnapped_ Jemma last month. She told me that S.H.I.E.L.D. ran into him eleven times since he escaped the FBI, but that he got away every time. Come on, May, that’s more than a coincidence. That sounds like you have a mole."

May stared at Brock for a long time. He took it as a good sign. Finally, her eyes narrowed unhappily. “Fine. You’ll hear from me."

Brock knew a dismissal when he heard one. So he lifted his glass in a silent salute and made himself scarce. His last mission for the year accomplished, Brock allowed himself to indulge a little. The night was still young, S.H.I.E.L.D. was springing for food and drink, and his soulmate would return the next day. Things were looking good.


	16. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while... But I guess RL is challenging for everyone right now, so I'm sure you'll understand :-). Reading fanfiction certainly helps me through the lockdowns, and if my work can do the same for even one of you guys, then I'm glad.
> 
> But back to the story: The plot starts to thicken, and believe it or not, there _is_ going to be a "Big Bad" in the end. I'll just need another few thousand words to get there ;-).

Jemma was always a little sad to leave England. At the same time, she loved her work for S.H.I.E.L.D. and was also glad to return to her lab. And to her friends, of course. This year, there was another reason to look forward to coming back – it awaited her in the hangar when she got out of the plane.

“Brock! Happy new year!"

Her soulmate hugged her back and gave her a chaste kiss on the lips. “Happy new year to you, too." Then Brock pulled back and looked at her.

Jemma’s good spirits were quickly dampened when she noticed Brock’s serious expression. “What’s wrong?"

“Magnusson has escaped."

“What?"

“I don’t know anything more. Coulson ordered me to accompany you to his office as quickly as possible."

“Oh dear. Of course."

It wasn’t only Jemma and Brock that Coulson had invited to his office, Skye and May were there as well. The Director sat behind his desk, listening attentively to something Skye was saying. He looked up and smiled slightly as he spotted Jemma. “Agent Simmons, good to have you back. Please, have a seat."

Coulson switched on the screen on his back wall, which showed an aerial of a large facility. “I’m sorry to start the year with bad news. On the twenty-seventh, there was a break-in at the Danish prison where Magnusson was kept, he and four other prisoners disappeared."

“And they only told you now?", Jemma asked incredulously.

“Yes. And believe me, the Danish and I will have words about that. But for now, let’s concentrate on the fact that the man who tried to kill you is free again."

Jemma swallowed. Rationally, she knew that Magnusson wasn’t a real threat to her, not here at the Playground where she was surrounded by many very capable agents. But her subconscious couldn’t forget the sight of the ceremonial knife in his hand, prepared to stab into her chest.

“What do we know?", Brock asked calmly from beside her.

Skye cleared her throat. “At first, the Danish weren’t sure who the attackers were really after, since they freed five very different people. But I’ve had a look at the surveillance tapes from the prison and pulled some air traffic data, and I’m pretty sure the attackers belong to the _other_ Hydra."

Jemma frowned and looked over to her soulmate. “What would Hydra want with Magnusson?"

“You mean, besides the fact that he’s obviously gifted?", May interjected.

“I may have an answer to that." Skye started typing on a tablet and images appeared on a large screen on the wall. “I didn’t really look into Magnusson before. First I was too busy with Rumlow’s confession, then there was a number of missions, and suddenly Catalina Island seemed like a lifetime ago and not important anymore. Especially because Magnusson was behind bars. But I guess that has changed now. So. Jens Magnusson, born in Odense in 1955, studied Biology in Copenhagen, did his PhD in 1981. Went on a trip through half of Europe, held talks at a number of universities, ostensibly to get a postdoc position. He got permission to travel to East Berlin, too, but didn’t leave the country after his four-day visa was over. Nobody heard of him after that."

“And you think he joined Hydra?", Brock asked.

“I had a look at his scientific work, it’s full of racist crap. It seems he wanted to ‘improve’ the human race by harnessing the abilities of gifteds. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?"

Yes, it did. Jemma grimaced as she thought back to Raina’s experiments. Then she frowned. “But if he’s gifted himself, shouldn’t he have been on the Index?"

“That’s what surprised me, too. There’s no mention of him. But there was someone with abilities like his, a Polish woman. She disappeared in 1983, one year after Magnusson went to East Berlin."

“That can’t be a coincidence", Brock said with conviction. “He must’ve found a way to transfer her powers to himself."

“I agree", May added. “The question is if he also taught anyone else."

“Probably not, or Hydra would have an army of energy-sucking soldiers by now. We’re talking about an event from 1983, after all", Coulson pointed out.

Brock turned towards Skye. “Did the Danish or the Spanish manage to get anything out of Magnusson? Like when exactly he stranded on that island?"

“He refused to tell them anything. But the inhabitants of Catalina Island told the U.N. emissary that the Gods sent their ambassador thirty years ago", Skye answered.

“So he would’ve disappeared from civilization before the iron curtain fell. That means he doesn’t have any ties to the American Hydra branches", Coulson mused.

“Exactly. Add that to everything else and I’m sure the Eastern Hydra got him out", Skye said.

Jemma bit her lip. _Just what I needed. The man who almost killed me is working for an organization that would kill me if it could. If that isn’t a recipe for more nightmares..._ “So what do we do now?"

“Skye, have you found any clues where they might have brought Magnusson?", Coulson asked. The hacker shook her head. “Then we keep doing what we’ve done last year: Try to smoke out Hydra. _All_ of it." He looked around the group and found only nodding faces. “Good. Since we’re all together now, May, do you have any news?"

“No", May said surly. Then she conceded: “Well, there is one thing. Rumlow wants to help us track down Ward."

Jemma’s head whipped around. Brock wanted to do what?

Coulson’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Is that so?"

Brock cleared his throat. “Director. I know you don’t trust me, and I get why you’re using me as an errant boy. But don’t you think I can be of better use doing _real_ work?" When Coulson just looked at him silently, Brock sighed. “You’re the boss, I’ll do whatever you want me to. But if I can think of anything that might help you catch the bastard who almost killed my soulmate? I’ll let Agent May know."

“You do that", Coulson said mildly. “That goes for everyone else, too. If you have any ideas, go tell May or Skye. Understood? Good, then you’re all dismissed."

In the hallway, Skye gave Jemma a lopsided grin. “Sorry for the bad news. But I wish you a happy new year anyway."

Jemma hugged her friend. “Happy new year to you, too. Did you have a nice party?"

The two women chatted as they made their way to the mess. Brock was trailing them silently. At least Skye didn’t seem nervous to have him in her blind spot. Over dinner, Skye asked about Jemma’s and Brock’s Christmas. She laughed openly when Brock told her that Jemma’s parents had cuffed him to their table. Then the meal was over and Skye said her goodbyes.

As soon as they were alone, Brock smiled mischievously. “So. Wanna show me your room?"

Amazing what impact one sentence could have on a body, Jemma thought distractedly as she nodded. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time."

“Then let’s go."

Jemma felt tingly all over as Brock walked the hallways alongside her. The science quarter was deserted and they snuck a few kisses before finally reaching her door. “I’ll ask Agent Koenig to give you access rights", Jemma said as she swiped her lanyard over the card reader.

“You don’t have to", Brock assured her. “Us grunts aren’t used to privacy anyway, but I know you scientists are. I can always knock."

“You’re my _soulmate_, Brock. You don’t have to knock."

His face lit up at her words. Jemma smiled, glad to have made him happy. Then they were inside the room and Brock let his gaze wander. Jemma tried to imagine what it must look like to him: The standard S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued bed, wardrobe and desk, a non-regulation bookcase overflowing with science books, a small couch, a large poster of the periodic table of the elements and a cluster of photographs on the wall. Brock looked at her, silently asking for permission. When Jemma nodded, he stepped over to study the pictures.

“Wow, you look really young in this one."

Jemma came closer to see what he was looking at. Then she laughed. “That’s because I’m seventeen in it. It was taken in autumn 2002, for my boarding school’s yearbook. See there in the first row? That’s Akshita."

“Right", Brock said with recognition in his eyes.

“It was our final year. God, we felt so incredibly wise and experienced and _adult_..." Jemma shook her head in bemusement. “We were so full of ourselves. But most of us went on to do pretty cool things. I like having some childhood pictures here to remind me of where I’m coming from, you know?"

When Brock only hummed thoughtfully, something unpleasant occurred to Jemma. Hesitatingly, she asked: “Do you– do you have any childhood pictures?"

“Yeah", he nodded. Then he looked down, scratching his neck uncomfortably. “Or at least, I used to. In my apartment in Washington. I actually have no idea what happened to it."

“Oh." Jemma blinked. “I think S.H.I.E.L.D. searched the residences of all known Hydra members. But back then we didn’t have enough staff to bag and tag _everything_. So I’d assume they only took things that might’ve been clues about your Hydra work? And if the rent payments were automatic and your landlord didn’t have the flat cleared, everything else should still be there."

“Hm." This noise was definitely more on the positive-thoughtful side than the one before. “Maybe I could ask Coulson for permission to make a little detour the next time I have an appointment with Kowalski. Bring some of my things here."

“That’s a good idea", Jemma smiled brightly. “Maybe I could accompany you. I’d love to see who you are when you’re not playing a role."

“Playing a role?"

“Yes. You know, like the always-black-wearing S.H.I.E.L.D. agent or the elegant gentleman that Docs and Props thought would please my parents."

Now it was Brock’s turn to blink in surprise.

Jemma grinned. “You thought I hadn’t noticed, huh? Well, I may not be a proper spy, but accurate and detailed observations are important for science, too."

“And if there’s one thing I can count on, then that you’re good at science", Brock said teasingly. Maybe in an effort to distract Jemma from further personal questions, Brock turned back to the wall. “Was that taken at your graduation?", he asked, pointing to a large photograph in a golden frame. It showed Jemma in a black robe and a square academic cap, her parents and Cathy at her side, all of them smiling proudly. “Yes, it was. My family came to the States together with Fitz’s parents and grandmother. Here, that’s them in this picture."

“You look really happy", Brock observed.

Jemma smiled in remembrance. “Yeah. We were. Fitz and I had worked so hard, and then to both graduate top of our classes... It was great. We were both itching to do something relevant with our skills now."

“You joined Coulson’s team shortly after, didn’t you?"

“First we failed our field tests. That was a bummer. _Then_ Coulson came and offered us a place on his team anyway. I was so grateful to him, I would’ve done anything."

“That man certainly knows how to inspire loyalty."

“Hm?"

“Nothing", Brock deflected. He indicated another picture, this one showing Jemma, Fitz, Skye, May and Coulson in front of the Bus. Jemma and Fitz were sitting next to each other on the half-open ramp, Fitz’s crutches peeking out behind them. “So when was this taken?"

“That was when we came back from the UN general assembly where Coulson had given his speech. We were so glad that we’d saved S.H.I.E.L.D. and May suggested we take a picture. To remind us of our hope and enthusiasm in the upcoming times."

“She did?", Brock asked, surprised.

Jemma nodded. “And she was right. It was so hard those first few months, fighting against Hydra, fending off machinations by some American generals who thought S.H.I.E.L.D. was easy prey... Watching Fitz piecing himself together again... I did use that picture to motivate me more than once."

Brock put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. Jemma leaned against him, thankful for his silent support.

“These ones are more recent, aren’t they? You all look – lighter. Not like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders anymore."

Jemma absentmindedly stroked over one of the images. “You’re right. We do seem happier. Even though there’s still so much to do... And we hadn’t even caught up to you yet when these were taken." She grinned. “That picture I gave you for Christmas? I think I’ll get a copy for myself, too, put it up here. Everyone who’s important to me is somewhere in these pictures, so you should definitely feature more prominently."

Brock leaned down to give her a kiss. “I have no problem featuring prominently in your bedroom."

“You’re such a dork", Jemma laughed as she swatted at him.

Brock just grinned, lifted her up and carried her over to the bed. As he lowered her on the duvet and she almost got swallowed by it, he grinned. “This ain’t regulation either, is it?"

“No", Jemma smiled sheepishly. “I know a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent should be able to sleep anywhere, I do. I lived on a _plane_ for more than half a year, for Christ’s sake. But I also – sometimes get a little homesick, and you’ve seen how cold our house is, so you know why I’ve always been used to thick duvets, and I just..."

Brock kissed her gently as she trailed off. “Hey, no need to justify yourself. I was just teasing. Besides", he grinned mischievously, “just because I _can_ sleep on a straw mat doesn’t mean I want to. Having sex is certainly more comfortable on a soft surface."

“You always think about sex, don’t you?", Jemma laughed.

“When you’re near? Always", Brock agreed. “Want a demonstration?"

“I thought you’d never ask!"

The next morning, Jemma woke to the feeling of a broad muscular chest under her cheek. She blinked, lifted her head, and was immediately captured by a pair of warm brown eyes.

“Morning, sleepyhead."

“Morning, Brock. Oh dear, I drooled on you. Sorry."

The chest underneath her shook as Brock laughed. “No worries. You looked so adorable I didn’t want to move you."

Jemma felt herself blush. Brock dipped his head to kiss her scalp. “I could really get used to this. This bed is so warm and comfortable, I think I’m staying here until Coulson calls me."

Jemma grinned up at him. “I know you, Mister. You’d be bored out of your mind before noon. Or just really, really hungry."

“Hm, I know something that can help with both problems", Brock stated teasingly before he suddenly flipped them and started trailing kisses from Jemma’s neck down her body.

Jemma sighed with pleasure. “Okay, point taken. But still – ah. Oh, wow, Brock, what’re you – hm, no, don’t stop, I just... What did I want to say?" Jemma gasped as Brock’s tongue hit just the right spot. She was incapable of anything but twitching and making low, appreciative noises for a while.

Finally, her brain came back online. “Plans. I had plans for today. I wanted to finally tell you about my research. Would that – interest you?", she asked, suddenly uncertain. _He’s a specialist by training, just like May and... certain other people that I’m not thinking about. They always told me to keep my explanations short. Maybe Brock also doesn’t want to know the details of what I’m doing?_

But Brock, who looked immensely pleased with himself, just crawled up to be able to look her in the eyes. “I’d love to hear about your work", he said honestly. He gave her a chaste kiss. Jemma still felt slightly weirded out whenever she could taste her own mustiness on his tongue, and she suspected that he’d realized that. Brock smiled down at her. “It’s been bugging me for months that you would help me with all my problems, but couldn’t even tell me about yours. I might not be able to give much input, but still. It’s important to you, so it should be to me, too."

“God, what did I do to deserve you?", Jemma muttered.

Brock grinned. “Hey, that’s my line. Convicted ex-terrorist, here."

“Well, ex-terrorist, how about I show you my shower, then?"

  
* ∼ *

An hour later, they stood – clean and fed – in Jemma’s lab. She waved her hand in a grand gesture. “Welcome to FitzSimmons’ place of wonders. This nice, well-organized bench over here is mine, the chaos over there is Fitz’s. Thanks to Coulson’s generous support, I have all the equipment I regularly need in here. I only have to go to the other labs we share with the rest of the science division for some very specialized tasks."

Brock nodded, silently impressed. He’d always known that Jemma was important to Coulson, but this room told him just _how_ important. The stuff they had in here was really expensive. _Good thing I didn’t decide to kidnap her. Coulson would’ve sent all of S.H.I.E.L.D. after me. Plus the Avengers, probably._

Jemma chatted happily, telling him what most of the bigger instruments were used for. Then they reached her computer. “And this is the heart of the lab. Most of the other instruments send their data here, and it’s where I keep my electronic lab book. If I want, I can even send data from here to the holo table, like this..."

With a grin, Jemma pressed a few keys and the big table in the middle of the room came to life. It showed something that was vaguely familiar to Brock from his high school days.

“Are these chromosomes?"

“Yes, well spotted. And if you zoom in..." All but two of the chromosomes disappeared. The remaining ones got larger and larger and larger, until they finally turned into squiggly black lines of capital letters. Brock blinked. ATATGGUATAGUAT... What?

Jemma pointed out some letters that were coloured red. “What you see here are thirteen point mutations clustered in two distinct regions. These mutations are in your genome, in mine, and in that of six other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents with active or inactive soulbonds."

Brock’s mouth dropped open. “Are you saying...?"

“That I’ve found the soulmate gene? Yes."

Brock broke into a grin. “Congratulations, Jemma!"

Jemma smiled modestly. “I’m sure other groups have made the same discovery by now. They will surely present their findings at the conference in Warsaw at the end of the month. But I’ve already gone a step further."

“Yes?"

She nodded. “Think about it: The mutation is present in people with active and inactive soulbonds. So it’s more like a blueprint for the biological processes that make the mark appear, that enable the transfer of energy or that generate the psychic link between soulmates. But it’s not uniquely responsible for the processes."

“It needs a construction manager?", Brock tried to follow the methaphor.

“Exactly", Jemma beamed. “I’ve been looking into epigenetics. That’s the field of – well, things that can influence how often a gene is read out, basically. People with a soulmate gene either have some kind of gene repressing mechanism that gets shut off once the bond is activated, or the gene needs an activating mechanism."

Brock nodded slowly. “Okay, that makes sense. Do you think that there are different mechanisms involved for the different stages of a bond?"

“You mean because the mark apppears instantly once the words are spoken, but the hormonal dependence only develops with the first energy transfer?"

“Yeah. And the psychic link takes even longer to form."

“Yes, that had occurred to me. It’s why I’ve been trying to get blood samples from people in different stages of bonding. To be able to make comparisons."

“Okay. And have you found anything yet?"

Jemma shook her head. “Unfortunately not. But I only had the soulmate gene breakthrough at the end of November, a few days before the SkyHeroes case, so I haven’t had much time to look yet."

“Fair enough." Brock grinned cheekily. “I’ve certainly kept you busy over the holidays."

“Oh, you!", Jemma playfully hit Brock’s shoulder.

God, she was hot when she was sciencing. Just as Brock debated if he should try to coax Jemma back into bed, his phone chimed. Brock looked at the display – a message from Coulson. He sighed. “I’m afraid work’s calling."

“It’s okay. You should go save some more turtles and leave me to my ivory-tower research", Jemma said almost straightfacedly.

Brock stole one more kiss, then he made his way to one of the briefing rooms.

Inside, he found Coulson and a Level 5 agent that Brock knew in passing. Henricks, Brock’s brain supplied a name to go with the face. Leader of one of the rapid response teams that weren’t quite good enough to make STRIKE. There were also two people in the room that Brock hadn’t expected, Jemma’s friends May and Skye.

“Morning", Brock greeted neutrally. Skye and Henricks noded back, May only stared at him coolly.

Coulson smiled pleasantly. “Since we’re finally complete" – honestly, if the science division wasn’t located at the other side of the base Brock would have arrived earlier, because he sure didn’t dawdle on the way to meetings – “we can start. Agent May, please explain to the others what you’ve found."

May nodded towards Skye, who tapped on her laptop and made images appear on a screen on the wall. “As you all know, Skye and I are hunting for possible Hydra bases. Last night we intercepted an encrypted Hydra message. Thanks to the incompetence of Ward’s people, we were able to decrypt the message."

“The keywords you found in his last hideout?", Henricks asked.

May nodded. “Yes. We were able to trace the message back to this compound in Colorado. And we believe it means that they’ve caught a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent."

Skye pressed another button and text appeared on the screen: “Alpha three two gamma seven. Eagle still not talking. Waiting for the _Interrogatore_. Jealousy protocol in place."

“We’ve lost contact with Agent Bishop in Denver", Coulson explained, and Skye pulled up the picture of a brunette woman in her mid-thirties. “She’s a Level 3 and was tasked with investigating possible mobster activities in the area."

“Mobster activities? Isn’t that the fed’s job?", Henricks voiced what Brock was thinking.

“Usually yes. But not if we think they’re dealing with Chitauri tech", Coulson explained. “Although now it looks more like Hydra was posing as the mob, even using Italian codenames."

May continued with the briefing: “We don’t know what the rest of the message means, but we have to get back our agent. Which means that we need to bust the place."

Brock cleared his throat. “If Hydra hasn’t changed its codes, you should be careful, whatever you’re planning. Jealousy protocol means that if it looks like someone wants to free the prisoner, the wardens are under orders to kill the prisoner immediately."

“Well, shit", Skye swore. “Why would you do that?"

“If the prisoner has information or skills that Hydra thinks would be dangerous in the hands of their enemies. Dead men tell no tales." Brock was uncomfortably aware of the appalled glances thrown his way. He refused to react to them.

Coulson looked grim as he said: “In that case, Rumlow, let me remind you that your status here is still under debate. So you’d better think carefully about the consequences for you if Agent Bishop dies."

Brock straightened. “Sir?"

“You wanted to make yourself useful. Congratulations. You’ve read the Handbook, you know that rescue missions of S.H.I.E.L.D. prisoners need at least one Level 7 or higher on the team. Unfortunately, they're all either otherwise occupied or still on leave. Much as it pains me to admit, you’re our only option."

“But he’s only Level 4", Henricks protested.

“Yes. Officially. But he used to be Level 8 and has done this kind of op routinely in the past. Plus, I’m sure he knows what failure would mean for him, so he will do his best. Am I right?"

Brock wasn’t a fool. He’d wanted to be promoted quickly, this was his chance. Of course he would do his best. So his sincerity was genuine as he said: “I won’t disappoint you, Director."

“Good. But I’m taking some precautions anyway. Henricks, Rumlow will be the official lead, but if you’re doubting any of his decisions, call Agent May for confirmation. Rumlow, if you’re willing to wait another three hours before departure, Hunter will arrive back from his leave and you can take him along. Your choice."

Brock tried not to be offended by Coulson undermining his position as lead of the team. He kept his voice faultlessly polite as he replied: “Then we’ll wait. Can you give me his contact info?"

Coulson nodded towards Skye, who typed again. A moment later, Brock’s phone chimed.

“I will leave you to it, then. Good luck." With that, Coulson left the room. The other three didn’t look terribly happy. Well, Brock had managed to work with Steve Rogers (the man who had destroyed everything Brock had ever been working towards) and Natasha Romanoff (the woman who had killed his best friend), some grumpy S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were a piece of cake. Even if one of them was the Cavalry.

“Do you have more intel for us?", Brock asked, deliberately including Henricks in the “us". If they were meant to work together, the man better get used to feeling like a team.

“I’ve already forwarded everything we have to your S.H.I.E.L.D. mailbox. Agent Henricks can show you how to requisition transportation and equipment with our new system", Skye explained curtly. Then she closed her laptop and left the room together with May.

Brock looked after the two. _Still a lot of work to do on that front. But that’s a battle for another day._ Then he turned towards Henricks. Better to get this out of the way without Henricks’ people listening in. “Is it gonna be a problem for you to take orders from me?"

The other agent seemed to honestly consider the question. Finally he stated: “The day of the Insight launch, my team was stationed at the Hub. But I had friends at the Triskelion. Some of them died."

“I’m sorry", Brock said. And he meant it. He’d known already back then that there were many basically decent people in S.H.I.E.L.D., had regretted that they were necessary sacrifices for the greater good. With his recent epiphanies regarding Hydra’s true motives – well. It was certainly no lie that he now wished he’d never launched those Helicarriers.

“Sometimes, sorry doesn’t quite cut it", Henricks said.

“I know. But they say actions speak louder than words. Like saving a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent’s life. You don’t have to _like_ working with me, but can you follow my orders?"

Henricks was silent for a long moment. Then he asked something unexpected: “What was your team’s casualty rate?"

Brock blinked. _One hundred percent, that last day._ Of course he didn’t say that. “I was Commander for almost eight years. We lost two people in that time."

Henricks nodded thoughtfully. “Let’s look at the briefing package together. I know we’re no STRIKE team, but I’ll tell you what my people are good at, and what’s not so much their thing."

Brock took that offer as the peace offering it was and sat down to talk business.

  
* ∼ *

It was already turning dark again when Brock, Hunter, Henricks and ten fully outfitted field agents boarded two Quinjets. One of the perks of working during the holidays: There was no competition for good transport. The flight was short, and Hunter made it even shorter by chatting away. It was a mystery to Brock how someone that perky had ended up as a merc.

Brock knew that Coulson’s warning was serious and had taken no chances in his planning. The shielded Quinjets were going to land almost a kilometer away from the site, far enough that even the noise of the engines shouldn’t be detectable at the base. Then the team’s two infiltration experts would sneak onto the premises, climb on the roof and throw several cartridges of Jemma’s new knockout gas into the ventilation units, followed by two strong EMP bombs that Brock had been happy to find in the armory’s inventory. That should hopefully prevent any attempts to kill Agent Bishop. The rest of the team would follow close behind, ready to storm the two entries. If Brock’s gut feeling was correct, he had even identified which room Bishop was most likely held in. And his gut feeling seldomly lead him astray.

Surprisingly enough, the plan survived contact with the enemy. Nobody got lost on the way from the jet to the compound. The infiltration specialists made it onto the roof without being caught. When Henricks’ people smashed the door in, they weren’t greeted by gunfire. Instead, unconscious uniformed bodies littered the hallways. All of the electric equipment was blown, including the lights, so the team made their way through the building using flash lights and gas masks. Brock was silently pleased that Bishop was where he’d suspected her to be. He told the team’s medic and a second agent to carry their unconscious colleague outside into fresh air and wait for the Quinjets that he’d ordered brought closer. Hydra had kindly provided a large enough paved courtyard for the two birds.

“Secure the enemy agents, then comb the compound for possible sources of intel", Brock ordered. Henricks’ team hurried to comply. So far, their leader hadn’t found anything wrong with Brock’s orders. Well, Brock _did_ have a lot of experience with rescue missions.

“Sir, we’ve checked all the rooms. Should we return to the ’jets?", Henricks asked half an hour later.

Noting the respectful address, Brock thought: _Looks like I managed to win over_ someone _at last. Good._ But he hesitated before answering. They’d arrested seventeen Hydra agents, secured half a dozen computers and even found some old-fashioned paper lab journals. Mission accomplished. And yet...

“Take everything back to the Quinjets, but leave two of your men here. One accompanies Hunter, one comes with me. We’re checking the rooms one more time."

Henricks’ face was hidden behind his helmet, but Brock could read his surprise from his body language. It didn’t matter, Brock was leading this mission, and his gut feeling said that something was fishy. It wasn’t just that jealousy protocol seemed a bit over the top for a Level 3 S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, something about the other part of the message tickled his brain. A code alpha was usually reserved for high impact messages, and unless Bishop had accidentally stumbled over something huge, this prisoner didn’t seem high impact. Anyway, his gut had been right about Bishop’s location, it might be right about this hunch, too.

Hunter was less subtle than Henricks. “D’you like it in here or what? Don’t wanna go back to base? Trying to avoid the Missus already?"

“Shut up, Hunter, and search the north side of the compound."

The Brit saluted sarcastically and sauntered off. Brock motioned the remaining agent to follow him. The flashlights had started flickering, not exactly making Brock’s job any easier. Why the fuck wasn’t S.H.I.E.L.D. simply using LEDs like everyone else? But Bock soldiered on, methodically checking room after room. There was nothing. Just as Brock considered agreeing with Hunter and calling the search off, he noticed something unusual. In the flickering light, a vertical line had become visible on one of the walls. Brock crept closer and inspected the line with his flashlight. Yes, there was definitely something suspicious here. He withdrew a little scanner from his tac vest and ran it along the line. The device blinked a few times, then projected a pattern onto the wall. Brock tapped the indicated places, keeping his ICER gun ready in case something nasty would happen. There was a quiet click, then the line on the wall grew thicker and finally turned into a gap. Brock pushed against the edge of the gap, causing a large section of the wall to swing inwards. He pointed his flashlight into the dark gloom, revealing a set of stairs.

“Hunter, come back here immediately. Henricks, send a squad back into the building. We’ve found a hidden staircase to the basement", Brock said into his comms.

“Well, shit. I mean, copy", said a British voice.

“Copy", came the American counterpart.

Brock let his light sweep the walls of the stairway and what little he could see of the hallway below. Smooth concrete, nothing that looked like a trap. The stairs were so narrow that he didn’t think Hydra would hide a large number of agents down there. Something warned Brock against waiting for the others. Maybe it was the threat of jealousy protocol that had hung over this whole mission, maybe something else. He made a decision.

“We’re going in."

With the other agent at his back, Brock crept down the stairs. After he’d gone a few steps, he heard muffled noises. Someone was yelling, then a shot went off.

“Shit!", Brock cursed and bolted down the stairs. The hallway made a sharp turn after a few feet. Brock carefully looked around the corner – six doors, three on each side, one of them slightly ajar, a plain wall at the end of the hallway.

“Watch my back", Brock instructed the other agent before advancing on the open door.

“I won’t go down this easily, Hydra scum!", a woman panted.

“Shut up and die already", a man growled back.

Brock kicked open the door. A man in a black Hydra uniform was struggling with a blonde woman wearing dirty, ripped clothing. They were both clutching a gun – a proper one, not an ICER – that was currently pointed at the ceiling. Brock didn’t hesitate. He shot an ICER round in the man’s back, who immediately dropped like a stone. As the man fell, the woman ripped the gun from his hands and took a few steps back. Then she looked up.

“You!"

Brock had a split second to register that this was _Sharon Carter_, also known as Agent Thirteen, granddaughter of the legendary Peggy Carter and one of Fury’s most trusted assets. Then she raised the gun and shot.

Later, Brock reflected that Carter must have felt too weak and shaky to trust her own aim, otherwise she would have gone for a head shot. As it was, she aimed for center mass, letting Brock’s bullet proof vest stop the projectile. The impact was still strong enough to bruise and made Brock stumble back a few steps. He used the opportunity to get out of the line of fire, pressing himself against the concrete wall of the hallway. Ow, that had hurt.

Henricks’ agent appeared at Brock’s side, ICER in hand, and looked at him for directions. Brock signaled him to wait. If he wanted Coulson to promote him, he had to choose his actions carefully. “Carter, listen. I’m on your side, okay? I’m working for S.H.I.E.L.D. now."

Carter laughed nastily. “How stupid do you think I am, traitor? You launched the Insight Helicarriers. You even tried to kill Captain America! Coulson would never forgive you."

Brock winced at the truth in her words. Yeah, he could see why she’d be suspicious. But this was a shit place for this conversation. “It’s a long story. Can we maybe not discuss that here? The rest of the team is waiting outside with a pair of Quinjets. Come on, give me the gun and let’s go."

“Hell no. I don’t believe you. If you come around that corner, I’ll shoot you."

Brock closed his eyes. Carter’s voice was shaking, she must be either in a lot of pain or very weakened or both. It would be so much easier to just ICER her, too. But then he’d have to explain to Captain Rogers why he’d shot his sweetheart’s granddaughter. “Carter, come on. You’ve nothing to lose. You’re already a prisoner in a Hydra dungeon, and in case you forgot, I just knocked out the guy who tried to kill you. What could possibly get worse by coming with me?"

“They didn’t get anything out of me by force, so now you try to gain my trust by ‘rescuing’ me. I’m not gonna fall for that, Rumlow."

Damn that woman for being so stubborn. (Although she did have a point, if he was inclined to be fair. What she described would have been a good tactic, if Brock had still been a member of Hydra. But he wasn’t in a mood to be fair right now, not while feeling the bruise form where she’d shot him.)

“Okay, how about this: I promise I won’t ask you a single question. Neither will anybody else. We’ll just get you back to HQ and let you talk directly to Coulson. And you can keep the gun."

Silence. Then: “Alright, fine. But if this is a trick, Rumlow, I’m shooting your balls off."

“Noted", Brock said drily as he put the ICER gun back into its holster and slowly stepped around the door frame. He kept his hands open and raised in front of him, as nonthreatening as he could manage. Carter was leaning against the back wall, her hair plastered to her head with sweat and her face a sickly white. Her hands were shaking but still pointing the gun at him.

“Can you walk?", Brock asked neutrally.

Carter took a long moment to answer. Finally, she admitted: “No."

“If you stop pointing that thing at my head, I’ll help you."

It took her even longer to lower her arms. As she did, some of the tension bled out of her and she sagged against the wall. Brock forced himself to walk slowly, telegraphing all of his movements as he pressed himself against her side and put her arm over his shoulders. “Okay, let’s go."

Carter was tense, but so was Brock. He’d never have thought that he’d touch this woman again without either of them actively trying to kill the other. As they went out the door, the agent that Brock had brought with him stood straighter.

“Ma’am."

Brock rolled his eyes. “Clear the other rooms, then secure the Hydra agent and follow us", he instructed.

“Yes, Sir."

He and Carter had just made it up the stairs when they heard the agent curse loudly. Then his voice was in Brock’s comms. “There’s a bomb in the guardroom. Countdown is at four minutes, twenty seconds."

“Fuck!", Brock swore. “Everyone, get out as fast as you can."

Carter gritted her teeth and started running. Brock helped as much as he could, pulling and steadying in equal measure. Luckily, the compound wasn’t that big. Just outside the exit, Hunter was waiting for them. He inserted himself on Carter’s other side and helped them both to clear the last few meters to the Quinjet. Just as they reached the ramp, an explosion rocked the ground and the trio stumbled. Looking back, they saw that a plume of smoke was rising from the building, but most of the walls seemed to be still standing. The agent that had accompanied Brock into the basement had made it out, too, carrying the unconscious Hydra guard in a fireman’s carry.

“Agent Carter?", a surprised voice asked.

Carter turned her head around, her face visibly relaxing. “Agent Henricks. It’s good to see you."

“What are you doing here?", the older agent asked.

“She doesn’t have to answer that", Brock intervened. “I promised no questions until we’re back at base."

Henricks raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Instead, he ordered two of his people to help their colleague get the unconscious prisoner on board the second Quinjet while Hunter and Brock helped Carter into a seat. They all strapped in, then Brock gave the go signal. Ten minutes later, they had reached cruising altitude. The team medic folded down a cot and told Carter to lie down so he could start examining her. The rest of the team either closed their eyes to get some sleep or got started on their reports. Brock was in the second category. Now that he could finally enter Jemma’s labs, he wanted to spend time with her rather than work when he was at the Playground.

About an hour later, Brock heard Hunter address Carter. “It’s okay to sleep, you know? Almost everyone else is doing it, too, and I bet you have much more reason to."

The rescued agent didn’t answer. Brock studied the pair from the corner of his eyes – Hunter with a carefree grin, Carter tense beneath the blanket the medic had given her.

Still pretending to work on his report, Brock said: “She’s not going to sleep."

The other two looked at him. Hunter’s grin turned into a puzzled frown, Carter tensed even more at having been found out.

“Not with me in the same plane", Brock added calmly, finally turning towards them.

“What do you mean?", Hunter asked.

“He cut me with a knife once, then tried to shoot me", Carter answered in a clipped voice.

Brock shrugged. “With the gun you’d pointed at me before."

“Because _you_ were threatening another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with your own gun!"

“Touché."

“You can say whatever you want, Rumlow, I don’t trust you."

“Fair enough. But maybe you can have a little chat with Captain Rogers or even Romanoff after Coulson’s through with you. They can fill you in on what’s happened."

Carter didn’t seem convinced, so Brock just shrugged and went back to his report. He had a feeling that there wouldn’t be much time for paperwork once they’d all heard Carter’s story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Sharon is introduced as Peggy's niece in the movies. But in the wonderful stories by SallyExactly (which are my headcanon for Clint's and Natasha's backstory), she is Peggy's granddaughter. I somehow like that version more - it means she's a direct descendant, so there's more of Peggy's genes in her. Plus, it fits better age-wise if there's an additional generation in between. (I've never read the comics, so I don't know what the "true" relationship between them is.)


	17. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait! I'm working full-time, raising two kids and trying to build a house, so free time is depressingly scarce right now... But I promise that new chapters will keep coming, even if it might take a while.
> 
> This one has a lot of background information and character development, but the next one will have more action and a big surprise, so stay tuned ;-).

“Jemma! Happy new year", Fitz greeted as he came into the lab. He’d just arrived back from his holidays, pulling a trolley behind.

“Fitz, happy new year to you, too." Jemma hugged her friend. “How were your holidays?"

Fitz shrugged. “The usual. But something my dad said gave me a new idea, I’ll just have to go get some things from storage..." He bustled about the lab, pulling up some old blueprints on the holo screen and absent-mindedly started to make adjustments to the plans. Then he looked up. “How about you? Did your parents like Brock?"

“I think so", Jemma said slowly. “At least that’s what they told me the first four days. Then Cathy came home and recognized Brock from the Insight footage."

“Oh. I bet that went down well."

Jemma grimaced. “Cathy threatened Brock with pepper spray, and when I defended him she accused me of being Hydra, too."

“Ouch", Fitz winced.

“In the end I could stop them from calling the police by cuffing Brock to the dining room table. We went through the court record together, they asked a lot of questions, Brock explained what he could..." Jemma shrugged. “Not exactly the kind of Christmas Eve I’d been hoping for. But maybe it’s for the best, at least now the secret is out and I don’t have to lie to them. In the end, my parents decided to trust fate and trust my judgement and accepted Brock into the family. Cathy – well, Cathy’s still very unhappy, but at least she can be in the same room as Brock without flinching. And she didn’t expose his secret to the rest of the family."

“That’s good, I suppose", Fitz said. Then he sighed. “Wish I could take my soulmate home to my family. Who knows, maybe one day..." He trailed off, looking a little lost.

Jemma put her hand on his arm supportively. “Fate brought you together once, it probably will again. And then you can bring him to _me_ first, so I can make sure he’s good enough for you. _Then_ you can take him to your family."

Fitz laughed. Jemma grinned back, mission accomplished. They spent the remainder of the afternoon working on their respective projects. Jemma was processing more of her own blood samples, preparing to look for unusual protein concentrations in her cells, and Fitz tinkered with who knew what. At nine in the evening, Jemma got a call from Brock to tell her that he and the team Coulson had given him were on their way back. And that they had rescued two people from a Hydra base, although he wasn’t allowed to say who. Maybe one of them was Herrera, the scientist whose kidnapping had caused Jemma to be kidnapped by Ward in return? Jemma didn’t know of anybody else who was missing. Luckily for her, Coulson decided that Jemma and Fitz deserved to know what was happening and invited them to the debrief. Skye and May were present anyway, seeing as they were leading the fight against Hydra.

“Well, DC, are you going to tell us or do we have to guess?", Skye asked teasingly as Coulson joined them in the hangar.

The Director didn’t rise to the bait. If anything, he looked worried. “Rumlow and his team found someone who was supposed to be deep undercover. We don’t know when she was compromised or what she had to endure."

That sobered Skye. “But who is it?"

“Sharon Carter", Coulson finally admitted with a sigh. “I don’t look forward to telling Captain Rogers about this."

_Oh._ Being British herself, Jemma had always held a deep admiration for S.H.I.E.L.D.’s co-founder, Peggy Carter. Her granddaughter had big shoes to fill.

“You told me Carter was in Africa", May said from Coulson’s other side.

“Yes. It’s what I told everyone who asked. As I said, she was _very_ deep undercover. We haven’t had any contact in almost nine months."

That was highly unusual. Coulson was spared further questions by the blaring of the alarm and the opening of the roof. The Quinjets were arriving. Jemma waited impatiently for the engines to shut off and the ramp to lower. Brock was the first one to come out, he looked a little tense.

“We need a wheelchair", Brock called in the direction of the medical team that had been waiting near one of the entries. Then he gave Jemma and the others a short nod before disappearing back into the Quinjet. The next one out was Agent Henricks, a field agent whose team was stationed at the Playground and for whom Jemma had provided scientific support several times in the last two years. He was supporting a brunette woman that Jemma had never seen before.

“Agent Bishop! Are you alright?", Coulson greeted the couple.

“Yes, thank you, Sir."

“Medical will do the standard post-captivity checkup with you now, debrief can wait until tomorrow."

The woman looked relieved to hear that and let herself be escorted out. Henricks stayed behind to help his people, who were now disembarking, too. They were carrying computers and boxes that presumably contained confiscated lab equipment. Two squads of guards were escorting blindfolded prisoners from the other jet in the direction of the holding cells. Jemma could see that Fitz was just as impatient as herself. Finally, the medical team emerged from the Quinjet, a doctor pushing the wheelchair with Carter in it. Brock and Hunter were following behind the group. Carter must have cleaned up on the Quinjet, she was wearing a standard S.H.I.E.L.D. track suit and had clean (albeit very pale and partly bruised) skin but dirty hair.

“Director Coulson. I’m glad to see you." Despite everything, Carter’s voice was steady.

Coulson smiled thinly. “It’s certainly a surprise to have you here."

“You don’t say."

The Director looked at the doctor. “Can I debrief Agent Carter before you treat her?"

The woman nodded. “There are no life-threatening injuries or anything else that needs immediate attention. If that’s okay with you, Agent Carter?"

“Definitely."

“Good, then let’s go", Coulson ordered, dismissing the medics with a nod and grabbing the wheelchair himself.

A few minutes later, the whole company had gathered in Coulson’s office. Carter distrustfully stared at Brock. “Director, are you sure it’s a good idea to have him here?"

Jemma’s first instinct was to bristle. Then she remembered what Brock had told her about the days leading up to the launch of Project Insight. He and Carter had fought in the Helicarrier control room, hadn’t they? And Carter had just escaped from Hydra captivity. In her position, Jemma would probably be suspicious, too.

Luckily, you could always count on Coulson to keep a clear head. He asked neutrally: “Have you collected any recent intel that suggests Rumlow’s still Hydra?"

Looking decidedly unhappy, Carter shook her head.

“Then, seeing as he was the agent in charge of this mission, Rumlow stays."

“Sir", Carter aknowledged resignedly. Then she took a deep breath. “Should I start at the beginning?"

“Please", May butted in. Right, she apparently hadn’t known about Carter’s mission, either.

“I went undercover eleven months ago. My team had arrested a Hydra agent in Washington who was good enough to be more than a grunt, but still fresh enough that she didn’t know too many secrets. She had a similar stature as myself, so Director Coulson suggested I should use a face veil and pretend to be her. What can I say, it worked much better than expected." Carter smiled thinly. “What had been planned as a short op, a month at most, soon turned into something bigger. I managed to get promoted in Hydra, got the base commander to trust me and hire me as his aide. Unfortunately, that was the point where it got too risky to contact Coulson directly, or even to get off base to leave intel at dead drops."

“That was in April", Coulson interjected.

Carter nodded. “Yes. My plan was to gather all intel that I could, find out who the big bosses are and where the money comes from, then fake my death and return to S.H.I.E.L.D. But then my cover got blown in the beginning of December."

“How?", the Director wanted to know.

Carter shook her head with a bitter laugh. “A health check-up, of all things. I didn’t even know Hydra does something like that. But my boss told me one day to announce the yearly health check in one week’s time, and that as usual _everyone_ had to attend. He was going to be the first one to be examined, to present a good example. I mean, come on! But after that statement, it was impossible for me to weasel out of the check. And it would have been fine if it had just been the standard height, weight, blood pressure routine. But apparently the agent I was impersonating had seen the medical team because of some liver problems before, so they insisted on doing a blood test. Even that might have been fine, if their routine test hadn’t included determining the blood type."

“Shit", Skye muttered to Jemma’s left.

Carter continued: “Because it had been intended as a short op, we never thought to find out the agent’s blood type. But when the data didn’t match up, the doctor told the base commander, who is a suspicious asshole and immediately had me arrested. From that point, it didn’t take them long to find the face veil. You can imagine how happy they were when they ran my picture through their data base and found out who I was."

On Jemma’s other side, Brock grimaced. He probably knew firsthand what Hydra did to moles and traitors. Coulson looked very serious.

“You don’t have to tell us any details today. Just – did they manage to get anything from you?"

Carter huffed. “Certainly not. What do you think why they kept me alive? They still needed to find out if I had told you anything."

“And they were hoping to break you eventually, get some juicy S.H.I.E.L.D. secrets from you", Brock said grimly.

Coulson silenced him with a look. Then he asked Carter: “But was it worth it? Did you find out anything important?"

“Hell, yeah", Carter answered, a grin unexpectedly appearing on her face. “You’d never guess." She let the tension rise a few more seconds, then declared: “Hydra is financed by the Mafia."

There was a moment of utter silence. Then everyone started talking at once.

“Quiet!", Coulson finally ordered. When the noise had died down, he asked: “Are you serious?"

“Oh, deadly serious, Sir. I was present when several representatives of the Cosa Nostra came for a visit, I swear they were no impostors."

“But why would the Mob finance Hydra?", Skye asked.

Carter inclined her head. “That’s a good point. Officially, they want a piece of the cake left by the Chitauri. You know that Hydra has made a lot of progress recreating their technology, and the Mafia made a deal to get first dibs on any new weapons. But I actually think that the tech is just a pleasant side effect. What they really want is a distraction."

“Explain", Coulson ordered, a look of fierce concentration on his face.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. is rising like a phoenix from the ashes – everyone knows that, both the villains who fear us and the security forces who offer cooperation. On the other hand, the Avengers have established themselves as a force to be reckoned with. Caught between us, Hydra should have been eliminated by now. Many smaller organizations already have been. And what would happen once they were all gone?"

“S.H.I.E.L.D. might focus on organized crime", May answered the question.

“Exactly. And I’m pretty sure the Mob doesn’t want us on their tail."

“So instead they use Hydra as a sacrifical anode. Neat!", Fitz butted in. He was met by questioning glances. “You know, like you connect a block of zinc to, say, the hull of a ship to protect it from corrosion? And just like the zinc is eventually consumed and needs to be replaced, the Mafia puts more and more money into Hydra so they can open new bases even as we continue shutting them down. All to keep us off their own track."

“That’s actually a pretty good metaphor", Carter said.

“The FBI is going to love this", May muttered.

Jemma saw the wheels turning behind Coulson’s eyes. “This could be just what we need. If we can prove the connection, we can shut down the responsible Mafia families. That cuts off Hydra’s funding and hopefully serves as a deterrent for other groups that might have been thinking about building up some distractions."

“And of course you can bust a number of Hydra bases, too. I have a lot of intel, Director. And Hydra doesn’t know exactly how much, so hopefully they won’t all relocate suddenly", Carter said.

Coulson grimaced. “That’s the only sore point. We have to be quick if we want to catch them. I will get our FBI liaison to arrange a meeting as soon as possible. Agent Carter, I suggest you get some rest now, tomorrow we need to ask you for all the information you can give us."

“Of course, Director." As Carter was wheeled out of the room by the doctor, she threw a last suspicious glance at Brock. He didn’t react.

Once the door had closed, Coulson asked Brock to recount the raid on the base. Jemma was glad that this mission seemed to have been less dangerous than the ones in December. But she flinched when Brock said that Carter had tried to shoot him. That could have ended very badly indeed.

Once Brock was done, Coulson wanted to know if Henricks had anything to add. The field agent grudgingly admitted: “If you ask me, I think Rumlow did very well. None of us would’ve searched the compound a second time. Without him, Agent Carter would’ve been killed by that bomb."

“I see", Coulson said quietly. He turned towards Brock. “You did S.H.I.E.L.D. a great service today. For that, I promote you to Level 5. Keep going like this, and you might one day get your old position back."

Jemma’s face broke into a happy smile. Brock stood up straighter. “Thank you, Sir. I will do my best."

“Glad to hear that. You can expect to be a part of the follow-up missions that will come out of Agent Carter’s intel."

Brock nodded silently. When Coulson dismissed them all, Jemma grinned at her soulmate. “Congratulations, Brock! Now you’re only one level beneath me."

“Sassy", Brock mock-complained and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll go to my room, get showered and changed, then I’ll come to you, okay?"

Jemma’s grin took on a very different flavour. “I’ll wait for you."

Behind her, Fitz made gagging noises.

“Oh, shut up!"

  
* ∼ *

Coulson was true to his word. The next morning, he had IT provide Brock with a laptop so that he’d be able to read sensitive intel without people looking over his shoulder. A few hours later, a large chunk of data arrived in his inbox. The package mostly contained parts of the transcript of Carter’s debrief, supplemented by additional information about some of the people or places she described. With it, Brock got a message from May. She was asking him if he could add anything. Brock scrolled through the pages and pages of text and sighed. He’d asked for a more direct involvement, now he had to make the most of it. So he rolled his neck, stretched his hands and started to type.

It took Brock most of the night to get through everything. When he finally pressed “send", it was half past five and his eyes were burning. Blearily, he stumbled into bed and slept until lunchtime. Nobody seemed to need him that day, so he went to the gym and later visited Jemma in her lab. She asked if she could have more blood samples from him and Fitz, and of course both of them said yes. Because Fitz had been a bit cranky all afternoon, Jemma suggested that they could cook something nice and watch the old Star Wars trilogy in the evening. To Brock’s surprise, that suggestion seemed to include him. Fitz was a bit startled at first, but then said yes.

The three of them met in one of the communal kitchens. Because they hadn’t had time to order fresh ingredients, they decided to make some pasta with a vegetarian tomato sauce – you could always find some onions, root vegetables and canned tomatoes somewhere in the cupboards, and Fitz was known to stock pasta in his room ‘just in case’.

“Brock, could you prepare the carrots, please?", Jemma asked her soulmate.

“Sure." Brock grabbed a peeler from one of the drawers and got to work. He listened with a small smile on his face as Fitz and Jemma bickered over the relative merits of leek and onions in pasta sauce. When the three carrots were peeled, Brock rummaged around for a cutting board and a knife. He placed the first carrot on the board, picked up the knife – and hesitated.

“I _know_, Fitz. All I’m saying is that leek has quite a characteristic taste that doesn’t harmonize with _every_ vegetable that you might put into a sauce. Right, Brock?" Jemma finally looked over. “Brock?"

“Hm?"

“Everything okay?"

Brock realized that his grip on the knife had turned white-knuckled. He carefully put the knife down, then wiped his sweaty hand on his pants. “I’m fine. Just ignore me."

“Are you sure?" Jemma placed a hand lightly on his lower back. The two scientists weren’t stupid. They looked from the knife to the carrot, then to where his left hand was curling protectively over his right.

“Do you... have phantom pains or something?", Fitz asked hesitatingly.

Brock sighed. “No, it’s nothing. Just being stupid." He straightened, picked up the knife and resolutely started cutting. The rhythmic _clac, clac, clac_ seemed unnaturally loud in the small room. Both scientists stared at him.

“You know, I had real trouble taking a shower for a while", Fitz said finally. Brock’s motions slowed. “Kept thinking I was drowning every time the water got into my face."

“I know what PTSD is, Fitz", Brock said roughly, not looking up from the cutting board.

“Firsthand?"

“Fitz!", Jemma protested.

Brock smiled grimly and finally turned towards the engineer. “So you’re one of the few people on this base who _hasn’t_ read my confession, huh? But to answer your question: No, I haven’t experienced it myself. Yet. Not for a lack of opportunities, though. And I’ve sent members of my team on medical leave because of it."

“Then maybe you should talk to Doctor Garner or one of his colleagues, too. I mean, you lost a fucking finger."

Brock shrugged dismissively. “It grew back. Give me a few weeks and I’ll get over it." He cursed himself for having shown weakness in the first place. He didn’t want Jemma to worry about him.

“Field agents", Fitz scoffed. “Right, Jem?"

Jemma sighed, torn between her friend and her soulmate. “Not everyone reacts the same way to traumatic experiences. Recent studies suggest that some people are less prone to be affected by PTSD than others, although it’s not clear why. Maybe these people are also drawn to dangerous jobs?"

“Or everyone else has the good sense to drop out of training", Fitz muttered under his breath.

Brock huffed. “If it wasn’t for us field agents, you wouldn’t have a job either." Then he gestured towards the board. “Carrots are done. What shall I dice next, onion or leek?"

In the end, the sauce contained one of each and turned out very tasty. Fitz refrained from mentioning Brock’s little episode again, and Brock didn’t tease him when he dropped his plate on the way to the dishwasher. After dinner, the three grabbed some snacks and a selection of beers that Fitz had brought from home and made their way over to Jemma’s room. Fitz dropped down on one end of the couch, while Brock took the other. Jemma turned the screen on her desk a little so that everyone could see, started the movie and settled down comfortably between the two men.

They were only a few minutes into the movie when Jemma’s phone rang. “Oh, it’s Coulson. – Good evening, Director."

Jemma listened attentively. A frown appeared on her face. “Are you sure? – Well, that’s not good. Not good at all. Would you like me to– Alright. Yes, I’ll be there at once." Jemma hung up, then faced Brock with a sigh. “Three of the Hydra agents you arrested today show some strange symptoms. The doctors think it might be related to my sedative, they want me to have a look."

“Oh. Shall we postpone the movie night, then?", Fitz asked.

Jemma looked at her friend’s disappointed face and shook her head. “No, you’ve both earned some downtime. With a little luck, I’ll be back soon. But save a few crisps for me, alright?"

“Sure. Good luck!"

A good six hours later, only a handful of chips was left, and an alarming number of empty beer cans was piled on the floor. The end credits of _Return of the Jedi_ were rolling when Fitz said out of the blue: “I’ve loved her since our days at the Academy."

Brock blinked. “What?"

“I mean, she’s brilliant, right? And —" Fitz waved his hand through the air searchingly. His words had been slightly slurred, the beer was clearly having an effect on him.

Brock was feeling the alcohol, too. Maybe that was why he answered honestly: “Can’t blame you for noticing that. And I’m not the kind of jealous asshole who wants to keep his soulmate all for himself. But..."

“Don’t worry. I’ve always suspected that it wasn’t recipo– resprico– that she didn’t feel the same. Then I told her I loved her, and she didn’t say it back. And I’ve come to terms with it. I still love her, I’m just not _in_ love with her anymore. Feels more like... a sister, y’know?"

Brock nodded slowly. “That was also my impression. I mean, of her feelings for you."

“Story of my life", Fitz sighed. “Everybody sees me as their younger brother. Hell, even _Ward_ told me that once, and _he_ tried to kill me."

Brock tried to cheer him up. “Well, I was forty-one when I met Jemma, you’re only thirty-two. You still have time."

Wordlessly, Fitz started fumbling with his shirt buttons and then shrugged out of the shirt.

“What are you doing?", Brock asked, slightly alarmed.

Fitz turned his back to Brock and took off his undershirt, too. Then Brock could see it: ‘Hey, careful.’ The words were written between Fitz’s shoulderblades in slightly scrawled letters.

“Don’t know who he is", Fitz said bitterly. “Happened at a party at the Academy. I was too drunk to remember who said that to me. Put up a letter on the notice board, asked the teachers to ask around, put it in my S.H.I.E.L.D. file. Nobody ever came forward. Tried to find out the names of everyone who was at the party that night, but at least the ones I identified aren’t it."

“Shit."

Fitz huffed. “Yeah. But it’s probably platonic anyway. I mean, the writing looks pretty masculine to me, and – I mean, you never know, with the right person and stuff, but – at least I don’t _think_ I’m bi."

“So maybe there’s still a woman out there who’ll fall in love with you, without ruining your chances when you meet your soulmate again. That’s not too bad an outlook, is it?"

“No. I just wish they’d hurry up...", Fitz sighed. Then he put his undershirt back on, picked up his shirt and put it on. Backwards. Brock raised an eyebrow. Fitz looked down, grumblingly took the shirt off again and chucked it on the floor. “I’m too drunk for these serious topics. I’m going to sleep. Wake me up when she comes back, ’kay?" With that, he put his head on the armrest and closed his eyes.

When Jemma finally returned to her room just before five in the morning, she was greeted by the smell of beer. Instead of turning on the overhead lights, she opened the door wider, letting the light from the corridor illuminate her room. There was a lumpy shape on the couch – Fitz, from the snoring, with a blanket spread over him. Brock lay on her bed on top of the covers, still fully dressed, only with his shoes taken off. He was asleep, too, but opened his eyes when she came closer. “Sorry. I offered to carry him to his room, but he refused."

“You’re drunk", Jemma pointed out half-amused, half-surprised.

Brock grunted. “Only a little. I think Fitz and I bonded over movies, beer and women."

Jemma chuckled. “Okay. That’s good. Do you want to stay the night?"

“Hm-mh. Your bed’s too comfortable to get up ’gain."

“Then at least take off your cargo pants and sweater. And get underneath the covers."

“Yes, Ma’am."

Brock listened to Jemma moving around in her room. His tired brain finally reminded him why Jemma hadn’t been with them in the first place. “Did you find out what was wrong with the Hydra agents?", he murmured quietly.

Jemma laughed. “Yes. One of their _comrades_ told us that those three regularly smoked wheed. Seems like there are some unexpected side-effects when you combine that with my sedative."

“Huh. So none of your fault."

“Nope."

“That’s good then. Come to bed?"

Jemma slipped underneath the covers next to him, and Brock took the opportunity to steal a kiss.

“You stink of beer, Brock", Jemma complained.

Brock wasn’t quite sure if she was serious. But memories of his mother greeting him with alcohol in her breath as he came home from school suddenly made him feel quite ashamed. He pulled back. “Sorry."

“Hey, no, don’t worry. Just– turn around?"

Brock obeyed. He felt Jemma press her small body against his back, then her arm sneaked over his hips and she kissed his neck. “Good night, Brock. With a little luck, you won’t even feel too hungover tomorrow."

  
* ∼ *

When Jemma woke up, Brock was gone. Her screen was switched on, though, showing a text editor with the message: ‘Sorry, had to go. Coulson sent me on another mission. Will call you later.’ Brock never signed his messages. _Must be a spy-thing._ A groan reminded Jemma that she’d had another sleep-over guest.

“Fitz?"

“No."

“I haven’t even asked anything yet", Jemma protested laughingly.

“Answer’s still no."

Jemma sat up and glanced over at her friend. Fitz had pulled the blanket over his head. Jemma dubiously eyed the small mountain of beer cans. “How many of those did you have?"

“Too many", Fitz groaned. “I’m never drinking with your soulmate again." Silence. Then: “Where is he, anyway? Rumlow, if you’re filming this my revenge will be epic."

With a sharp tug, Jemma pulled the blanket away. She levelled an unimpressed stare at her squeaking fried. “He’s already gone on his next assignment. So either he was more sensible than you and drank less, or he can hold his liquor a lot better."

“No fair", Fitz protested. “You were supposed to share with us, not lecture me in the morning."

Jemma sighed, then brought Fitz a glass of water. “Here. I’m going to take a shower now, you should use the time to wake up properly."

When she returned from her small bathroom, Fitz had at least managed to sit up and empty the glass. He was massaging his temples. With closed eyes, he murmured: “Painful after-effects aside, it was an unexpectedly nice evening. At least he knows enough about Star Wars for a decent discussion, and he appreciated the English beer tasting. Also I–" He hesitated, then sighed. “I might have drunkenly confessed about my feelings for you. You know, from before– from before. And I told him about my soulmate."

“Oh."

“Yeah. He took it better than I expected. Didn’t even threaten to beat me up."

“Uhm..."

“Then again, he doesn’t need to. I see how you look at him and– Oh God, I’m still drunk, aren’t I?"

“Maybe a little", Jemma ventured carefully. “But I’m glad you two cleared the air."

“Yeah. Seemed like the right thing to do. Ever since you-know-what I really hate secrets."

Jemma sat down next to Fitz and carefully enveloped him in a hug. “Me too, Fitz. Me too. I told you how glad I am that I don’t have to lie to my parents about Brock anymore."

Fitz nodded and dropped his head on Jemma’s shoulder. “I still feel like shit, though."

“Poor Fitz", Jemma chuckled. “Come on, I’ll bring you to your room. Maybe you should take the day off."

Fitz reluctantly agreed (he loved his work as much as Jemma did hers), so she spent the day alone in the lab. She didn’t mind so much, seeing as she had enough tests to run on Brock’s and Fitz’s blood samples. Brock called her in the afternoon, telling her that Coulson had sent him to scout one of the places Agent Carter had mentioned in her debrief. He’d probably have to stay overnight and told her not to wait for him.

The next morning, Fitz was back in the lab. He still looked a bit peaky. “Are you sure you’re all right?", Jemma asked carefully.

Fitz huffed. “I’m fine. Don’t you dare tell Coulson otherwise! I was bored out of my mind yesterday."

“What’re you working on?"

Fitz grinned excitedly. “I told you my Dad gave me an idea, right? He was watching this documentary over the holidays, something about the Cold War and how both sides tried to find ways to remotely deactivate the other one’s weapons. Didn’t work out that well for them, but... Remember those Chitauri-like weapons we found in Montana last autumn? And the Chitauri tech we relieved Ward’s cronies off? I’ve had a pretty thorough look at them already, but not with this aspect in mind. Maybe I can construct something like a remote off-switch."

“That would be great", Jemma gushed. “Then I won’t keep you from your work anymore."

“_You’re_ not the problem", Fitz muttered. “The headache is."

“I thought you’re fine?", Jemma teased.

“Oh, shut up. I’m never drinking any alcohol again, I swear."

“Are you sure? Remember, it’s movie night with Skye tonight."

Fitz let his head fall on the table with a groan. “Bloody hell. She’s never gonna let me live this down."

Jemma couldn’t help herself – she broke into fits of laughter.

“I hate you."

The next week passed in a very similar manner. Brock was barely at the Playground, Coulson sent him from one task to the next. The few times that Brock managed to meet Jemma in person, he told her that all the missions revolved around gathering more intel. Coulson was planning something big, that much was sure. But there were no general announcements yet, so all Fitz and Jemma could do was guess (and try to get Skye to give something up – but she was remarkably closed-lipped about it, too). Jemma wasn’t too worried about that, though. She trusted in the security clearance level system, now that Hydra had hopefully been purged from it.

What did worry her were Fitz’s headaches. After his hangover, they hadn’t really gone away again. On the contrary, they were getting stronger. Medical couldn’t find anything wrong with him and Jemma was at a loss, too. It certainly didn’t improve her mood that she couldn’t find any definite differences in the blood samples of her and Brock (the ones with active soulbonds) and Fitz (the one with an inactive soulbond).

So all in all, Jemma was rather surprised when Fitz told her that he’d been ordered to attend a mission briefing in Coulson’s office at the same date and time as Brock.


End file.
